Love Never Dies
by Lady Merridell of Penndragon
Summary: Love Never dies...and apparently, neither does the Phantom. To save the Phantom's life, Mme Giry does something desperate and now Erik must suffer the consequence for it. Whilst the Phantom copes with his affliction, he crosses paths with someone who reminds him of his past love. He vows to protect her, but there's one problem...or two...or three...or more... not based off sequel
1. Chapter 1

**Musical/book based, no 2004 movie. I apologize, but I just can't stand the 2004 movie. It was a bit perverted :/. I prefer Ramin Karimloo, but you can imagine it's Gerrard Butler. Sorry for my critique, but his singing was a bit strange in the movie. He was fine in LND, though. Phantastic actually. Now, without further delay, the prologue! It's a bit long :/**

**Disclaimer: I do NOT own Phantom of the Opera. ALW, Kay, and M Leroux do. Wish I did :( oh well.**

Prologue

Night of Madness

Erik's POV

I waited for Christine and the useless fop- I mean, Raoul to finally leave. I trusted her young suitor, fop he may be, to get her away from here. To forget this madness, this nightmare I had thrust upon their shoulders. It hurt to let Christine go, but it was the one right thing I had done in years. No more lies. No more death. No more Phantom.

The roars of the mob reached a crescendo and I knew if I didn't run, I would be killed. So be it. I deserved it. But, despite my wish for self punishment, my instincts took over.

I snatched my cloak and fedora, knowing it would serve useful should I need to hide amongst the shadows. I left my mask, hoping that it would seem as though the Phantom had disappeared, never to return...or at least to let them know if they sought me they would see the horrors that lie beneath the mask. No doubt those rumors of a glance at my face will cause death would make them hesitant to continue with their mission.

I continued down the dark corridor dimly lit with a few candelabra. The jeers grew louder. I mentally cursed myself for not adding some sort of hideaway, a safe room in case my underground home was ever explored in such a fashion. I was a beast, hunted by man to satisfy their hunger for revenge.

I could feel them, hear them, right behind me. In order to avoid their wrath, I knew could evade the murderous throng doing the one thing the Phantom does best. Disappear.

I pulled on my cloak and melted into the shadows, turning my back to the mob. Out of the corner of my eye I watched the danger pass. Cast members whom I once thought of as decent men stormed through my sanctuary, eyes ablaze in their lust for blood and vengeance.

Were it not for my keen senses, sharpened by years of pain and torture, I would have stepped out of the shadows and quickly been caught. I could sense that the danger was not gone yet and waited patiently for the police to catch up to the raging cast members and stagehands, begging them to please calm down and let them handle it.

After making sure the danger had passed, I stepped out of the shadows. Suddenly a hand gripped my shoulder. I whipped around and my mouth flew open in shock.

...

Christine's POV

Christine's eyes filled with tears as the mob ignored her claims that she was fine and the Phantom was gone.

"Please, gentleman, this is madness! The danger has passed," said Raoul.

"I'll believe it when I see it," snarled Jacques, a stagehand.

"But there is nothing to see!" wailed Christine.

"He killed Joseph Buquet AND M. Piangi as well those crushed under the chandelier and you expect us to sit around?! They must not die in vain," he screamed, a wild look in his eyes.

The petite rats of the corps de ballet nodded and sobbed for emphasis. All but Meg, that is, who was no where to be found.

Christine felt sick. Who were these people? Certainly not the kind co-workers she had grown to know and love. No, what stood before her were crazed men driven by the thought of revenge, past tales of their prey's dark deeds fueling their madness.

Jacques led the crowd below, ignoring Raoul's futile attempts to stop them and Christine's pleas for them to leave the Opera Ghost be.

Thankfully the police, who were supposed to capture the Phantom previously, rushed over. Raoul briefly explained the raging mob and they gave chase.

Christine felt faint. Everything was a blur, but it seemed in slow motion as well. She accepted Raoul's offer to escort her home without really thinking about it. He offered his arm and she accepted it.

The Victomte de Chagny beat back reporters, whose attention had been drawn by the screams and panicking civilians as they filtered out of the Opera House Populaire.

Raoul hailed a brougham and they spent the ride in silence. After paying the driver, he lead Christine to the door of her flat.

"Goodnight, Christine. Please do get some rest," he said.

Christine just stared at the floor.

"Are you okay?"

No reply.

"Christine, please answer me."

She slowly looked and smiled. "Yes, thank you Raoul. I'm just a little..."

"Shocked?" he offered.

"Yes."

"Me too, but it's over now. Everything will fall into place. Now, get some rest and we can go for a walk tomorrow, how does that sound Little Lotte?" he asked.

Christine smiled at her pet name and nodded. "Of course, but can we please not speak of this for some time? I feel awful leaving him down there on his own."

"Shush, he will be fine, I promise," murmured Raoul. He was tempted to take her in his arms, to comfort her and never let go, but for propriety's sake and Christine's need for rest, he simple kissed her hand and bade her goodnight. He fingered the engagement band on his finger. They could discuss wedding plans at a later date.

Christine fell asleep almost the moment her head hit the pillow.

...

Erik's POV

"Minette?" Erik gasped.

"Shush," hissed Madame Giry, placing a finger to her lips. Erik nodded. He lead her through several twisting tunnels until he was sure the mob and policemen were far behind.

Erik turned to face the ballet teacher and maid of his box, Box Five, in the Opera House above.

"Why are you here? You're just putting yourself in danger," he whispered.

"I'm aware of the situation, Erik, now sit down. Are you hurt at all?"

"I'm fine, but I'm afraid that my nerves are failing me at the moment and I doubt that calming myself is an option," he admitted.

Mme Giry was taken aback. Erik never admitted to any sort of weakness. Not even the slightest discomfort.

Erik laughed at her surprise. "This night is one of madness," he explained. As he spoke, the rumblings of footsteps echoed off the walls along with jeers aimed at the Phantom.

"Speaking of madness," he mused.

"Come, quickly,"whispered Mme Giry.

Erik followed the elder woman clad in black. _At least we won't be easily spotted in the darkness_, he thought. As the footsteps drew closer he soon realized they would be quickly caught if they didn't hide soon. He pulled Mme Giry into the shadows and motioned for her to be quiet.

After several tense minutes, the footsteps and voices retreated. Mme Giry sighed in relief. Erik felt himself relax and tried to catch his breath.

He stepped out of their hiding place, thankful for the lack of light and plentiful cover the winding tunnels offered. The sound of glass clinking together pulled him out of his thoughts.

"Madame Giry," he hissed. "What are you doing?" He could sense her open her mouth, about to speak, when a sudden cry at the end of the tunnel caused them to jump.

"There he is!"

"He's got Mme Giry!"

"What's the matter, Monsieur l'Fantôme? One damsel ain't enough?"

Erik ignored their jeers. "Minette, get out of here. Make sure that Christine and...Raoul are safe. Please, listen to me."

Before Mme Giry could respond, the crowd had surrounded them, or rather the Phantom. Jacques pulled Mme Giry away.

"Stay back, Madame. You're safe, now," he said, ignoring the elder Giry's horrified stares as the mob taunted their prey.

Erik kept his head down. Even as he was roughly shoved to the ground and kicked. He could at least have the dignity of not facing the horrified looks his malformed face was sure to provoke. It only meant fear and fear lead to hatred. It had been a hard lesson to learn, but one his mother made absolutely clear.

She didn't understand his deformity, therefore she feared it and soon hated it. It was the same story everywhere he went. Such was the case tonight.

"I said _LOOK AT US_! Face your fate, Opera Ghost," shrieked a tenor whom Erik despised. He resisted the urge to strangle him, to reach for his Punjab lasso which, unfortunately, was not with him. A rough hand forced his head up into the light and he winced as his hideous disfigurement was revealed.

There was a brief silence, quickly broken by a once civil baritone.

"What happened to you, ugly?"

A string of hateful words ensued.

"Freak!"

"Monster!"

"You should be hanged just like those innocents YOU hung!"

The insults crescendoed and so did the beatings. One lucky aim kicked him full in the stomach. Another connected with his jaw. A punch sent him sprawling, followed by kicks that he would surely feel in the morning, if he survived through this. Someone decided to take out his pocketknife and he was pinned to the ground. His eyes roved the crowd for a face, just one friendly face. He found none. All were clouded by loathing and bloodlust.

Erik made no effort to escape. He deserved this after all he had done, but even so his limits were tested as new form of pain was introduced as his persecutors cut his arms and even a few to his face. The knife was replaced by fists as a rather haggard man assaulted his face.

Then there was the whip. The dreaded, awful, most unforgiving and ruthless of all weapons. The weapon of his past. His tortuous past. Each crack of the whip brought back dreadful memories. Memories of begging, pleading for mercy as those heartless gypsies just laughed and whipped him.

"Monster must have his lashings," they cooed. "The little freak _deserves_ his lashings. Now SCREAM." Then they would proceed to whip harder, never quite killing him or putting him in any danger of it. After all, he was one of the main attractions.

Tears of pain formed in his eyes. The temptation to brush them away in his anger with himself for showing weakness was tempting. However the slightest movement sent him into a world of pain. He felt sticky and the ground he lay on was scarlet with what he soon realized was his own blood.

He was forced to his knees and some rope was used to bound his wrists behind his back.

Erik was having trouble focusing on anything but the pain. The ropes dug into his skin, cutting off his circulation. Another rope was brought forth, but this time he recognized it as his own. His Punjab lasso.

The men made a sport of trying to get the lasso around his neck. Like a common beast, he thought ruefully. He thought of raising his hand to the level of his eyes, but soon banished the thought and resigned to his fate.

Soon the lasso found it's way to his throat and there was a roar of approval. They dragged him under a beam and tossed the rope over a beam. He focused on the pain, trying to block out the mocking from the crowd and Mme Giry's pleas to stop the madness. Tonight truly was a night of madness, for no one in their right mind would dare cross Mme Giry. There were some people that you could tell just by looking that they were not to be crossed. Mme Giry was one of them.

However no one was in their right mind. He felt the rope tighten. Panic flooded his mind and he wished to tear it off. His feet left the ground and he jerked involuntarily. The rope cut into his skin painfully and cut off his oxygen supply immediately.

Erik became faintly aware of the laughter around him. But this was not kind laughter. This was the kind of laughter that clearly said they knew he was in pain and approved of it. The kind he had grown accustomed to. They mocked his helplessness.

"Dance, Opera Ghost, dance," laughed Jacques. The men holding the rope jerked it, causing him to jerk and bounce and the rope to tighten.

Please let it be over soon, he begged silently. He felt desperate for relief. Anything. Any relief! His tongue felt thick in his mouth and poked out a bit. Something salty and wet caused a red haze to cloud his vision, stinging his gaze. His eyes were bleeding!

Curse it, why was his throat fighting for breath? Why could it not just end? Why was he still fighting? Darkness clouded his vision. He was finally going to die!

Erik hit the ground with a painful thud. He rolled over and retched as a dark cloud hovered at the back of his mind. His throat burned, but welcomed the oxygen gratefully.

Erik welcomed the darkness just as enthusiastically and hoped against hope that this was the end of his tragic existence. For once, he would feel at peace. Then, nothing...

...

Erik slipped in and out of consciousness. Voices spoke. Small tidbits of conversations were heard, but nothing that made sense. He was faintly aware of movement around him. He felt like he was dead, that the only thing that let him know he was still living was the pain. Searing white hot pain that he could only escape through unconsciousness.

Shoes scuffing the earth, murmurs, and even an argument here and there. He felt himself lifted off the ground and flinched in pain.

"You're alright, poor beast. Those wretched devils-" He never found out what it was about wretched devils. Erik just hoped that if he was dead, which he assumed he was, that he wasn't going down to he- he didn't get to finish his thought as the darkness took over.

"-it's in his best interest-"

"-but how long-"

"-not sure-"

"-get rid of this-"

Erik was comfortable. Or at least on something comfortable. He felt battered and bruised. He was also afraid to move, knowing it could only bring pain. These bits of conversation frustrated him. He couldn't understand why he was here. What was going on? Where was he? Who were these people?

Erik growled in frustration. The talking stopped suddenly. A voice, a heavily accented voice no doubt Persian, was the first to break the silence.

"Erik?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but no sound came out save for a faint croak. His tongue felt thick and dry from lack of use and his throat still stung. It hurt too much to open his mouth and the pain sent him back to the world of oblivion.

Erik woke with a yelp to the stinging of some sort of herbal poultice on his arms. He tried to sit up, but his pain only heightened. Everything hurt.

A kind voice hushed him and forced him to lay back down. A feminine voice. Somehow, it sounded wrong. This kindness seemed so foreign, especially coming from this person. Who she was was beyond him. His head pounded too much to think about it.

All he knew was that he did know this person from somewhere and kindness like this was not something she often showed. As his headache reached a crescendo he allowed himself to fall unconscious, glad to escape the throbbing.

Erik became vaguely aware of the sounds of someone rummaging through a pack. There was a pop, like a cork being pulled out of a bottle. He felt himself being propped up a bit, a dull pain overtaking anything that moved, and his mouth was gently pried open so a cool liquid could slip down it. A finger stroked his throat, causing him to swallow involuntarily.

Suddenly he grabbed the bottle with the cool liquid. It felt wonderful. He had to have more. He heard a soft sigh of relief as he drained it of it's contents. Ignoring the pain from his protesting everything, he finished it off, lay down with a sigh and fell asleep, feeling an odd sense of triumph in completing a usually trivial task.

Later he woke to the sounds of soft sobbing off to his right. Turning his head to the side, he ignored the pain from a kink in his neck and rope burns to observe a woman who knelt on the floor, her face in her hands.

He felt compassion for her. Was she his mother?

Mother. Why did that word send jolts of fear and loathing through him? Shouldn't he feel the opposite? Suddenly it all came crashing down on him and he remembered.

The beatings, the taunts, his Punjab, Mme Giry, the Vicomte de Chagny...and Christine. Oh, Christine. He missed her dearly, but dismissed the thought quickly. She was happy now. Safe.

"Minette," he croaked. "Are you alright?"

The woman looked up, her raven hair usually so tidy was unkempt and her eyes were red and puffy. She looked years older than she actually was when she was stressed and it did nothing to soothe Erik's already shot nerves.

"I'm fine Erik, but-" she burst into tears again. Erik shifted uncomfortably. He wasn't used to tears from anyone but Christine. Why did it hurt to think about her? The very mention of her name...

"But what?" he prodded, casting aside his thoughts.

"I've done something horrible. We almost lost you and then you made a sound. I tried to give you some water...and I did," she sobbed.

Erik felt lost.

"You gave me water. What is wrong with that?"

"It was the wrong water. I was supposed to get rid of it, but-" she cut herself off as more sobs wracked her frail being.

Erik felt worry, but allowed her to calm down. Once her hiccups had receded, he proceeded to question her.

"What did you give me?"

She ignored his question. "How do you feel? Do you feel...any younger?"

Younger? What kind of question was that?

"Minette, answer my question. What did you give me?"

How could she put this delicately?

"Erik. I'm so sorry. I gave you water from l'Fountaine de Jouvence," she murmured. "Nadir asked me to get rid of it, but I mixed up his bottle with mine. I'm very sorry."

There were several tense moments. Suddenly Erik burst out laughing. It hurt him to, but it broke the silence. The laughter did not have the desired effect and sounded cold and harsh.

"You know, it's not a very funny joke, but the thought is amusing. Now really, Madame, what did you give me?"

Mme Giry just glared at him. Suddenly he realized that he had made a terrible mistake. Never had Mme Giry joked with him and he highly doubted she would start at a time like now... What did this mean for him?

_It means an eternity of fear and loathing, that's what it means_, shrieked an angry voice at the back of his head.

Suddenly Erik leapt to his feet, ignoring the pains emanating from his wounds. He paced, trying to think.

"Bring in Nadir. I would like to know how he came across such a thing."

"But...Monsieur! You are not well," she stuttered.

"Bring me Nadir!" he roared. His face contorted in his rage.

Madame Giry flinched under his gaze, her eyes fixated on the left side of his face. His deformity. It was then he realized that he wasn't wearing his mask.

Erik placed a hand over the left side of his face and knelt beside Mme Giry.

"I'm sorry, Minette. Can you please fetch Nadir for me? That cursed daroga has some explaining to do."

"Y-yes. Of course," she replied. Mme Giry got to her feet and went to open the door.

"Wait."

"What?" Mme Giry turned to look at him questioningly.

"Please do bring my mask," Erik said.

With a curt nod, she disappeared behind the oak door.

Erik sighed and looked around the room. It was the manager's quarters. _Fancy that_, he thought. Surely Firmin and André would not allow the Opera Ghost, who had caused them quite some trouble, to recover in_ their_ office.

Suddenly, Erik's mind seemed to remember the previous events of the night before...or was it still night? He couldn't tell and decided to make it a point to ask Nadir along with the many questions that would follow. How did he find the Fountain? Why would he want to be rid of it? What was the purpose of it? How long had he had it? Did he ever drink from it? What was the fool thinking?

As Erik resumed pacing he winced in pain and found himself beside a mirror. Usually, Erik avoided looking in mirrors but now he could not restrain his curiocity and he looked. What he saw horrified and sickened him.

The bruised monster that lie in front of him could not possibly be poor Erik. But it was and it was ten times as horrible as ever. It's eyes were still slightly red from previous events. Blue and black bruises spotted his face and all around his neck and face where muscles had strained for oxygen. There was a deep purple bruise that snaked around his neck where the rope had cut into. Obviously the fools did not know how to properly use a Punjab, otherwise his neck should be snapped. He felt incredibly lucky and he should feel relief, but didn't. Once again, he'd cheated Death.

He was jolted out of his thoughts when the door opened tentatively. A rather tall Persian entered the room. His skin was the color of ebony and his emerald eyes shone with a kind light, ready to help those in need.

"Greetings, Erik," smiled the Persian. "You summoned me?"

"Enough with the formalities, Nadir," Erik snapped. "Enlighten me, what day is it?"

"Well, you have been unconscious for a week, so let's see...it would appear to be a Tuesday," said the Persian.

Erik maintained a stony expression, but there was a spark of surprise inside that was so well hidden that only one who had known him for years could see it. Nadir Khan was one such person.

"Erik, are you alright?" asked Nadir.

Erik debated whether or not it was worth saying anything. He had never felt more vulnerable or weak or crazed as that dreaded night. That night when everything he clung to, every last thing he held to, from his sanity to his insecurities, were destroyed. Damaged beyond repair. His love had betrayed him. Had unmasked him in front of all of the audience, the gendarmes, the managers, and the Vicomte de Chagney.

The audience screamed in terror and the gendarmes had seen him. They were meaning to capture the Opera Ghost, but he had no intention of being caught by those fools. That was when it happened. When every last piece of sanity he had clung to was lost. He had clung to his sanity by a thread and he had let go...and _embraced_ it, excepted it.

Erik remembered guiltily of how he dragged the young prima donna below into the catacombs that served as his home. Down once more to the dungeons of his black despair. Down below to the prison of his mind. By some chance, the de Chagny had found them and he, for some reason unknown even to him, was glad. Was gleeful that the boy had come. He felt murderous. He wanted to hang the boy. Perhaps that was the cause of his joy, his twisted and mad joy.

He had come so close, oh so close, to ending the fop's life, but Christine, wonderful Christine, had done something. She showed him what it meant to love. To not feel alone and, all at once, Erik felt reality along with his sanity return with a force that shocked him beyond comprehension.

In his shock and understanding of what he was doing was sick and twisted, he had released them and that's when the mob came. The chase and the mob and a terrible headache.

"Erik?" Nadir repeated. Erik was jolted out of his thoughts.

"Yes?"

"You wished to speak with me?" he asked.

"Ah, yes. Another question, did you know what was going on that night?"

"What night?" Nadir asked innocently.

"You know! The night of the attack on my sanctuary," Erik growled.

"I did know, actually," Nadir replied loftily.

"Then why did you not come and Madame Giry did?"

"Should I have come?"

"Did you know Minette was coming to my aid?"

"Yes."

"You let a woman go down there alone?! And with those madmen lose? She could very well have gotten hurt if she had gotten in the way."

"It was quite unexpected, I'll admit. She seemed determined to go alone. Her daughter, actually, had followed her mother against her wishes," Nadir added.

"The ballet rat?" he asked, mildly surprised.

"Yes. She actually came to help find Mademoiselle Daaé. She found your mask and very nearly convinced the mob you had disappeared."

_Little Meg Giry?_ Erik thought. Surely she had not done so. After all, she was a hopeless romantic and had a love for tragedy. The very idea that the Phantom had vanished after kidnapping the lovely prima donna and almost killing the vicomte only to release them was tragic, romantic and totally appealing.

Seeing the look of surprise etched on Erik's face caused Nadir to laugh a bit, albeit nervously because even he could not deny that the distortion on his old friend's face was, in a word, disturbing.

"Actually, she did truly believe you were gone and refused to believe you were still alive when a member of the mass saw a flash of your cloak. Any other questions?"

Erik thought about it. He could just ask him about the water and get it over with. Or, he could ask about what happened after he fell consciousness. It was soon decided that he would work his way up.

"What happened that night after I lost consciousness?"

"The gendarmes rescued you from the mob. They heard laughing and some screaming, no doubt from Madame Giry. Jacques and the others were arrested for attempted murder. The gendarmes brought you up into a dressing room. Madame Giry was able to convince them that you were not the Opera Ghost and that your face was a result of the attack."

"Of course they believed her and insisted upon calling a doctor. Had she not insisted you would be in good hands, a doctor would have been called, questions would be asked and before you know it you'd more than likely wake up in jail. Even with my meager medical experience, it's obvious you were born with the disfigurement."

Erik was silent.

"Anything else?" he finally asked, quietly.

"Yes. I have your mask and the mob destroyed most of your possessions. I took into inventory all that had been destroyed. Most of it is easily replaceable and I daresay you know the majority of your scores by heart. I've already restored a few."

Erik remained stony, silent. Then finally, "My dear daroga, there was no need. According to Madame Giry, I now have all the time in the world to compose more."

There was a tense silence. Erik was the first to break it.

"So, tell me Monsieur, how did you come across such a thing? How did you, a humble Persian, find the Fountain of Youth?"

Nadir sighed. "Well, I suppose I will just have to start from the beginning."

As the Persian plunged into his tale, Erik's expression remained emotionless, but the light in his eyes revealed all. By the time Nadir finished he was quite out of breath and Erik released the breath he had not realized he'd been holding.

"So...all these years?"

"Since before you were born, Erik. I will live for another two centuries until I will begin to age normally," Nadir mourned.

"So, it's not permanent?" Erik asked, hopeful.

"Of course not. Nothing can permanently stop death. Only slow it. To live as long as I have is torture."

"And that makes me feel all the better, I'm sure," Erik grumbled. "I wished for death, Nadir, I know it is and will be tortuous. I never wanted immortality."

Nadir felt his heart break at Erik's words.

"I just wish to die in peace."


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm sorry. This story is not a E/C fanfic ****. Yes, I know what you're thinking up to this point. WHAT?! NO CHRISTINE?! You're probably also thinking, "great, not another one of these stupid modern day fics" but I promise it won't be all teenager angsty. I will write a Christine/Erik phanfic. I know, I hate modern ones with different female characters, too, but my muse was just too strong. Very sorry. Please try and bear through it, it's actually pretty entertaining. No Mary Sues or sparkly vamps here. Onward! Oh, and please review. Special thanks to PhantomFan01 for being the first to ever review one of my phictions.**

**Lovest Always, Lady Merridell**

_**EDIT **_**: Christine WILL BE IN THIS PHANFIC! I forgot to mention this! She will not be a permanent love interest of the Phantom, sadly, BUT she still plays a VITAL part in this story. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera and or anything that appears in the musical or books or movies.**

Chapter One

Enter the Heroine

Breanna's POV

The air was crisp and rather cold for Arizona. Then again, winter is approaching. The usually white hot sun had loosened its tight grip on the usually stiflingly hot desert air. The residents of the Grand Canyon state had finally begun to poke their noses out of their houses and enjoy the occasional breeze that graced their area.

Some scarecrows were set out to celebrate fall along with skeletons, ghosts, and gruesome ghouls alike for the approaching All-Hallow's Eve, or Halloween. But I liked All-Hallow's Eve. It sounded more festive while Halloween was brighter and was usually another word for candy whether or not people realized it.

This was probably why most children's eyes lit up at the thought of Halloween. Playing dress up and getting candy for it. The work of a genius.

As I pondered these things, I watched the sky.

It was a nice shade of blue.

I started to cross the black road.

So pretty.

I looked for cars.

That cloud looks like a fish.

I heard the hum of an approaching car.

Now the cloud looks like a cat.

Don't worry, the car won't hit you, it's going too slow.

I wonder how much homework I have.

It's turning the corner.

What a nice breeze.

Why is it speeding up?

I turned in time to see the car speed up and it was coming straight at me.

...

Erik's POV

It was all too much. The technology, the horrifying media, the noise, the light. Where was the night? There were almost no stars save for a few dotting the sky. I had come here, to America, for the sake of traveling. I had been here once before. It must have been sometime in the 1900s, I can't remember. Something about JFK and a shooting, but I can't be sure.

This was a rare occasion when I ventured out of cellars in the Palais Garnier. I never stayed for too long. The changes were too overwhelming and some days I found myself going mad.

There were so many changes. Courtesy was not what it used to be. Then again, what did I know of kindness from others? It seemed only one thing never changed. The stares. Wherever I went, curious eyes followed me. I avoided looking at them whenever I was out.

Come to think of it, why was I here? It was winter and no snow. Of course, this was Arizona. Why was I here? In the sweltering heat? In this place where the sun blazes even in the time of the cold. Something had drawn me here. Perhaps the need to explore was overwhelming, but that didn't seem it.

I looked around at the winding neighborhood I was walking through. Suddenly, a black car-apparently brougham was no longer the proper term-speed round the corner ahead of me. It's wheels creating a high-pitched squeal that was absolutely devastating for the ears. Anything that makes a noise as horrible as la Carlotta should be destroyed.

I watched as it sped in my direction, but froze once I saw what was in its way. A rather petite girl with rather long chestnut locks, looked over just in time to see it coming, but not fast enough to react. I made a split second decision and threw myself at her, knocking us both onto the safety of the sidewalk. Why did I do it? I haven't the slightest idea.

...

B's POV

Breanna watched the car gain speed as it approached her. It was too fast. She felt frozen and she knew it was too late to move. Suddenly, a second before the sedan could hit her, a black blur slammed into her side and knocked her out of the way.

She lay squashed underneath her backpack. Her over large backpack full of binders and books she insisted on bringing, even though she never really got the time to read them.

After making sure there was nothing broken or permanently damaged, she sat up. She watched the car as it continued to speed around the corner and it disappeared.

That's when a shadow loomed over her. The shadow was very long, indicating that whoever it belonged to was rather tall, and there was something strange about the face. The profile seemed a bit off. She turned around and looked up.

A tall man stood before her. Yes, tall was definitely the word and dark. He had an aura about him that made you think of both light and darkness. He wasn't dark skinned, but he did wear dark clothes.

The man wore a black cloak with a black tailcoat and a black vest underneath. Under the vest was a white button up and he wore a white bowtie. In the heat?!

The most intriguing part, the accessory that screamed "LOOK AT ME" was his mask. His half mask. It covered most of his forehead and trailed down to cover most of his nose and was cut so that his mouth was not quite covered. The whole left side of his face was not visible and gave him an air of mystery.

Breanna watched, wide-eyed, as he smoothed back his hair, adjusted his mask, and straightened his coat. She noticed a black fedora at her side and picked it up. Dusting it off, she stood up and held it out.

"Thank you for saving my life. That was very chivalrous," she said, smiling kindly.

The man stared at his hat for a moment, then took it.

...

Erik's POV

"Merci, mon enfant," he said, absentmindedly, taking his fedora and pulling down to try and cover his mask. "J'espère que tu vas bien et que tu es en bonne santé."

"I'm sorry, I don't speak French," said the girl, staring at the ground apologetically.

"Of course. I hope you are okay," he corrected, remaining as emotionless as possible. It was hard to with that gentle twinkle in her liquid chocolate eyes that said, "it's okay. I'll listen and not judge." A look he had only ever seen in Christine's-no, he must not dwell on the past.

"I'm fine, are you?"

Erik nodded stiffly.

"Thank you very much," she beamed.

"Yes, well perhaps you should pay more attention when crossing the road nowadays," he snapped, trying to ignore the hurt briefly flashing in her eyes. He instantly regretted becoming so cross and decided to make amends.

"What is your name?" he questioned.

"Breanna. Breanna Herron," she informed.

Breanna. It suited her.

"Beautiful name," he murmured, which was not a lie.

"Thank you," she said, shyly. Erik couldn't help but stare, confused at the blush creeping to her cheeks. He quickly brushed it off. After all, any woman might have blushed at his compliment. _Besides_, he told himself, _who could ever consider liking let alone loving the Living Corpse? The Angel of Death. The Phantom of the Opera._ (Fangirls- WE WOULD, ERIK!)

He turned quickly, allowing his cloak to fan out behind him, leaving the girl-Breanna-confused. His only thought now was to return to his hotel room. Away from this innocent child before his madness seeped back and he stole her away like the monster he was. To escape to the darkness. Away from the light, the burning, revealing sunlight. As he left, he found himself looking back as Breanna disappeared into a house at the end of the street. Somehow, he felt a twinge of satisfaction at the state of confusion he had left her with. With these last thoughts, he went on his way.

**Ok, there's chapter 1. Breanna will not be fifteen throughout the story and the story will not stay in AZ for long. Only until somewhere in Ch 2, I promise. Please review. Until next time!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Why Herron? Well, I kinda like the bird and an extra r made it look better. I hope you like her. She's a fun character. Not Christine, I know, but bear with me. You'll be rewarded. Anyway, I apologize if the story is slow going, but it'll pick up, I promise. Reviews...I need them. Great motivation. **

**Lovest Always, Lady Merridell**

**Disclaimer: I not own Erik or Nadir or anyone from the musical/books/movie... Sadly...**

**Chapter 2 **

**Home Again**

Breanna's POV

I watched, confused as Erik suddenly turned and left. Did I say something to offend him? I couldn't have. All I said was thank you. Maybe French people are easily offended. I made it a point to look it up later.

I made the slow walk home, pondering what had just happened. I had almost got run over only to be rescued by someone dressed as the Phantom of the...and his name was Eric. Or was it Erik? Erik with a k or a c? Does it matter?

I sighed as I lifted the doormat and picked up the key. After unlocking the front door, I placed the key back under the may and went inside. My Mom's car wasn't out front, so I assumed she was out running errands. It would be an hour or do until my sister's came home and my dad was at work. I had the house to myself.

I practiced some scales, solfage, chromatic, and then plunged into learning some songs I had been trying to learn and perfect. I was no soloist, but a girl can dream, right? I was getting better anyway, with about three years of choir experience to back me up.

Sitting at the computer and still singing, I typed in "are French people easily offended". Apparently, they can be. I traced back to that day's event.

Did I say thank you?...yes. Was I staring?...sort of. Was that it? Maybe. Anything else? Well, I did sound a bit proud when I said I'd be turning sixteen. Did my pride somehow offend him? Maybe it sounded ungrateful. Who knows what was going through his mind. But he seemed like someone who was a softy underneath all those prickles.

My heart sank a bit at the thought I might not see him again, but I brushed it off. After all, he was probably very busy and had no time to associate with ignorant teenagers.

Suddenly there was a rap on my window. I looked out to see the last person I wanted to see.

"Oh, hello. You're a persistent one," I said, politely.

The man just scowled. A permanent expression that seemed like it would never leave. Ever present. Dark stubble dotted his chin and his thick eyebrows knitted as he inspected me, as if deciding whether or not I was worth talking to. He would be handsome, if one of his eyes weren't clouded over, signifying its uselessness and the horrible stench of alcohol hot on his breath.

"My boss has a proposition for you."

"So you've said," I replied.

"I'm here to propose it."

_Not very creative with his sentences, is he_, I thought.

"I don't want to hear it, thank you very much. I have no interest in any deals," I said politely. "Good day."

"Wait! If you listen, you won't get hurt nor your family members."

I stiffened. He would dare suggest an attack on my family-wait. Could it be...?

"I assume that was your car that almost killed me. What was the point of killing me if you need me so badly?"

"Because we don't _need_ you. You can be replaced, but not so easily. We aren't afraid to dispose of you if you don't cooperate, but I'm sure you wouldn't like that. We could start with your family members first," he offered.

"Don't you dare bring my family into this," I snapped.

The man started at the tone in my voice. Now I was getting angry, as I so rarely did.

"If you listen and agree, no one will be harmed."

There were several moments of tense silence.

"Fine, what do you want?"

"Good answer," he replied with a toothy grin.

...

Erik's POV

I felt numb. That child, that poor girl, could have died! Suddenly I was consumed in a wave of jealousy. She could die. She was not stuck in this awkward limbo of nearly everlasting life. Whilst I was forced to live against my will, she could die whenever she wanted to.

I lived through several centuries of change, tension, and hatred. My face received glares of pure loathing, fear, and even simply curious glances...of pity. Somehow, pity seemed almost just as bad as hate.

People looked upon you, feeling sorry for you. They thought about how unfortunate you were, as if it made you any weaker. And if they ever spoke to you, they acted as if you were delicate china. As if the subject of my face wasn't already a...sensitive...one, they have to make it worse by amplifying the fact that it was, indeed, a forbidden topic. That I, Erik the great Phantom who was feared by all at the Palais Garnier, was sensitive.

I growled in disgust. Sensitivity was for the weak. For those who sheltered in the warmth and safety of the light while I mastered the dark and mysterious ways of the night.

As I fumed, my thoughts drifted to the young girl, Breanna. Why does she remind me of Christine? I wonder if she sings as beautifully. Perhaps not. Maybe she sings as Christine had at first-like a rusty door hinge that could do with some oiling. I needed to see her-NO. Absolutely not! I will not allow myself to get tangled up in another mess like last time.

I'll start teaching her and the next day her childhood friend will come and steal her away and once again I'll lose my sanity...and the pain, oh the pain. I learned a lesson that night. That no amount of physical torture is worse than the pains of a broken heart.

No, the pain and burden was too much to bear. Up until that time I had ignored the whispers from my heart-no, I refuse to say the word. I had none, as the Khanum had reminded me once. I had hesitated to kill one man whom I had almost come to respect. She shrieked at my hesitation and I had quickly covered it up with a lie. One of the many thousands I had invented to save my neck.

I had ignored the whispers from my vital organ up until that point. Up until that point it was as if my hea-vital organ-did not exist.

I pushed aside the desire to see the young brunette once more and quickly continued on my way. The next day I returned to Paris by boat (I did not trust aero planes. Being in the air seemed so unnatural, not that I have a fear of heights. It's just abnormal.)

I walked down the stairs to my lair, only to find Nadir sitting next to the fireplace reading the newspaper. He looked up and smiled.

"Ah, back already?"

"Do not poke fun at me, Nadir, I am not in the mood," I growled. I strode past him and let out all my feelings on the large pipe organ. All my frustration, anger, and longing was forcibly pounded out on the ivory and ebony keys. It was powerless at my hands, forced to obey my commands.

I suddenly slammed down the keys, creating one big angry chord that surely even those above ground heard.

...

Erik's POV (third person)

Nadir winced. "_Please_ don't do that, Erik. Tell me what is troubling you?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he snarled.

"Oh come now, Erik, don't be like that," sighed Nadir. "Obviously something is bothering you."

"It is none of your concern."

"You realize I will continue to pester you about it until you tell me what is wrong. Are you upset about your immortality again?"

Erik remained silent and stony. Maybe if he remained silent the Daroga would back off, but even he knew this was not possible. _Nadir is too nosy for his own good_, Erik thought.

"I know you wish just as much as I that we could die, but it won't be at least another five years or so until the option is available," said Nadir.

"What do you plan to do as soon as you are mortal?" Erik asked.

"I intend to end my miserable existence. Perhaps I'll preform some noble act before passing on. Something to be proud of to send me off, don't you agree?"

Erik nodded stiffly. "How very fitting for our _dear_ Daroga," he scoffed.

Nadir ignored the mockery and continued. "You know, Erik, I don't think you should end your life so quickly. You have so much potential as opposed to an old sop like me. I've already done my part here," Nadir said, thoughtfully.

"Absolutely not, are you mad?!" Erik was shocked. How could he want to continue living? The very thought of cheating death for another who knows how many years was not in the least appealing.

"Suit yourself, Erik, but I think it's a terrible waste of talent."

Erik just stormed off to his room and slammed the door, trying to clear his meshed thoughts.

Nadir just sighed and straightened out his paper. He was familiar with Erik's occasional tantrums, but this one seemed different. He seemed confused and Nadir thought he heard longing in the tangle of angry chords. Nadir shrugged it off and continued reading. After all, Erik longed for two things alone. A normal face and death. The ability to die. Mortality.

Again, Nadir shrugged it off. No use in longing for what you can't have. He picked up the morning paper and read about a new book called, "The Fun of Dying". He made a mental note to look for it on his next outing.

**Hope you enjoyed it! There really is a book called "The Fun of Dying". Weird, huh?**


	4. Chapter 4

**Props and roses with black ribbons to those who are still reading this. Thank you for your support. **** Please do review. Constructive criticism is appreciated, but please don't bash my story. I've considered making taking some parts of the prologue (minus the Fountain of Youth) and turn it into a C/E phic. Thoughts? Oh, and check out my other phanphiction, The Call.**

**Lovest Always, Lady Merridell**

**Disclaimer: I do NOT own PotO. I wish I did, but I don't. **

**Chapter 3**

**Under New Management**

The mood in the cab was thick with tense excitement. The sky was bright and promised to be wonderful. A gentle breeze swept through the crowded city. Some stopped to enjoy it while others took no notice.

I stared up the building looming high and proud overhead. Next to me a rather strongly built French-speaking American, who seemed quite unimpressed by the immense opera house. The chauffeur stopped in front of the Rue Scribe entrance and helped us to empty the trunk of my suitcase. We, or rather I, thanked the kind Frenchman for his services. The streets were crowded with tourists and busybodies.

As we entered, my breath caught in my throat. Elegant and simply gorgeous. I soaked in every last detail, from the intricately carved Greek statues to the grand marble staircases. The ceiling was painted with scenes of Greek wars. Attention to detail was incredible and it would takes days, even years, to memorize and pick out every last detail. My mind spun.

We made our way up more staircases, which were grand in their own unique ways. There were elaborate columns with carvings tracing up and down and all around. Whoever designed this was a genius as well as extremely attentive, I thought. No stone left unturned.

We finally reached the manager's office and living quarters. I was getting tired of lugging around my suitcase.

I opened the door to my new room and, once again, was blown away. Craig left me with my things as I stared at my new room, awed.

"Five minutes, you and me eat, got it?" he growled. I took no notice.

"Yeah, ok," I murmured, relishing the moment. I felt him leave and finally remembered to release the breath I had been holding. The Napoleon lll style was breathtaking. There was a beautiful cherrywood dresser with a mirror, a large handsome four-poster with scarlet and gold drapes. The ceiling had prancing cherubs (thankfully covered accordingly) in the clouds, smiling childishly in shades of reds, blues, soft pinks, and delicate gold.

Gold seemed to be the underlying theme as was the rest of the Opéra house. As were chandeliers since a rather large, elegant one was hanging from the high ceiling. Its brilliant crystals sparkling from the electric lighting.

What I assumed was a closet was in one corner of the room while the small, but cozy, fireplace resides in the left side. Next to the closet was a door to the bathroom, which was just as luxurious as the rest of the room.

There was a beautiful oriental rug, slightly worn, but otherwise in good condition. A round cherrywood nightstand sat beside the large bed with a rather grand lamp resting on top. By the fireplace was a cushioned Napolean style chair.

I walked over to the bed and ran my hand over the soft, satiny gold and scarlet comforter, a smile small playing about my lips. It wasn't my dream room, but it came very close and I loved it. Above the fireplace was a shelf with a golden clock and room for books which I planned to take advantage of. There was a window on the other end of the room with a luxurious little cushioned window seat.

Another door opposite of the closet lead to my office and from there it lead outside into the hallway. The office followed the same theme with a cherrywood desk and luxurious cushioned chairs.

I checked the clock, realizing if I didn't hurry I would be late. And Craig would NOT be happy, not the he ever really was as far as I could tell. Leaving my suitcase on the bed, I left quickly, glancing at the map I had made myself of the Palais Garnier.

After several moments of wandering I frowned. "No, this can't be right. I never get lost! Hmm, maybe I took a wrong turn," I mumbled, examining the map.

"You did not turn left at the last turn," whispered a voice.

My head shot up and I looked around. No one was there. Feeling nervous, I decided to just smile.

"Er...thanks," I said. After several moments of silence, I shrugged and turned back and this time I turned left.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Every detail is as exact as I could get it save for the manager's quarters. I kinda improvised that a bit, but it went well. I hope you can agree. Au revoir!


	5. Chapter 5

**Wow, chapter four, again, you guys are great. Please keep reading. It will be worth your time-oh and please review. Red roses with black ribbons to all :)**

**Disclaimer: not mine not mine NOT MINE. Who isn't? Erik isn't! Who isn't? Nadir isn't! Who isn't?-**

**Erik: DID I NOT INSTRUCT THAT YOU WOULD KEEP YOUR PITIFUL DISCLAIMER SONGS CONTAINED!**

**Me:...actually, you said nothing at all.**

**Erik:...well don't do it**

**Me: no guarantees X) **

**Erik: :(**

**Me:...ok! Let's continue!**

**Chapter 4**

**The Note**

"Where were you?" growled Craig.

"I just got a little lost," I replied.

"Yes well, try not to get 'a little lost' anymore, okay?"

"I won't," I smiled, but secretly I was thinking 'sure, _mom_'.

Craig just grunted and looked over the menu. I glanced at my menu, relieved to find a section in English and decided to order lobster (cream of lobster with seasonings) to begin with, then sea trout (served smoked with comté cheese, walnuts, and mushroom broth), and finish it with peach (chocolate macaroon with poached peach and sorbet).

Our waiter was a rather tall and lanky man with black hair and a crisp white tuxedo. Thankfully he was fluent in English, along with sign language and Spanish. He offered us their finest wine, but I declined not being one for wine so I settled for water. I learned something that day. French water is thousands of times better than Arizona water and especially Gilbert water. Then again, any water is better than Gilbert water.

I glanced at Craig, who knew more about French etiquette than I. I copied his movements and proceeded to eat the cream of lobster our waiter brought.

It was savory, singing with the flavors of the ocean and deliciously cooked lobster. I managed to keep myself from scarfing it down. Oh good heavens, it was _divine_. Well seasoned. All too soon it was over and I couldn't help but wish there was more.

Deverick, our waiter, soon returned with the main course. The sea trout was just as satisfactory as the lobster and left my taste buds jumping around, trying desperately to get more. _The French are genius_, I thought.

Finally came our peach dessert. Usually I didn't care for fruit desserts, but I quickly changed my mind as the chocolate macaroon and peach sorbet found it's way to my ungrateful maw. I savored the flavors and immensely enjoyed the poached peach with the sorbet. For once in my life, I finally acknowledged cooking as art.

Deverick cleared our table and Craig paid for our meal. Deverick declined since the Opéra house now belonged to me and Craig was my friend.

"Think of it as a welcoming gift on behalf of the staff," he smiled.

I gave him a tip anyway, which he gratefully accepted.

"Do you like your living quarters?" he finally asked.

"Like it? I love it," I cried.

Again, Craig grunted. It was his usual answer and often meant yes.

"So...about managing the Opéra," I began slowly.

"I told you, don't worry about that. Just focus on your job, okay?" His amber eyes bore into my plain brown and I shivered. His eyes were a vivid, yellow-orange with reddish brown flecks. A perfect, vibrant amber I found unnerving. I nodded slowly.

"Good," he said, straightening. He strode ahead and I struggled to keep up. Suddenly there was a faint jingling from his pocket and he pulled out his phone. He spoke briefly to whoever called. It sounded urgent.

"I'll be there shortly...yes...of course I am...humph...au revoir," Craig grumbled. "I have to go. Urgent business. Can't delay. Au revoir."

"Au revoir," I returned. As soon as Craig's dark figure vanished, I turned on my heel and decided to return to my room. After managing to make it there without getting lost, I unpacked my suitcase and started filling the drawers of my dresser with clothes. I put shoes in the closet along with my suitcase.

Combs, brushes, toothbrush, toothpaste, and other related things went into the bathroom and stored in drawers. I couldn't help but appreciate all the storage space.

Soon everything was in its proper place and I collapsed on the leatherback chair in my office. I suddenly remembered a few pictures I had brought and placed them on the mantle along with a few prized trinkets. After adding a few more pictures and things to the room and office I sighed.

Now it felt more like home. Even thought I didn't need to, I went into the office to look over the papers. I skimmed through some letters, most business and a few comments. The pile mostly consisted of long documents about blah blah blah. Sighing, for once defeated, I replaced them.

I wasn't feeling up to the heavy reading at the moment. Perhaps something lighter?

I retrieved a book from the shelf and returned to my office. As I sat down, something caught my eye. There, on the center of the desk, was a black-bordered letter. Frowning, I picked it up and opened it and read the letter within.

_Dear Monsieur_-

Monsieur?! Obviously whoever wrote this either has the wrong address or doesn't know that the one in charge was a _lady_. I continued despite the mistake.

_It has come to my attention that the Paris Opera is under new management and I would like to offer my congratulations and welcome to my humble Opéra house. I assure you that you will not hear from me often, though I may make a few suggestions (I have long since given up trying to sway stubborn managers as my heart is no longer in it). My only request is that you speak to no one of these notes lest I be forced to assume extreme measures that WILL result in the removal of your position in the Palais Garnier. _

_Your eternally faithful servant,_

_O.G._

The second I read the signature I dropped the note in shock, trembling. _Okay_, I told myself, _calm down_. There is a logical explanation for this. It must be a prank. Probably one the employees. There is no Opera Ghost, as incredible as that would be.

A knock on the door caused me to jump and I opened the door. In front of me stood an elderly gentleman with kind, watery blue eyes and white hair. He wore a white button up under a black suit and a neat black bow tie. The man smiled at me.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle. Oui est le directuer?"

"Je suis. Parlez-vous anglais?" I asked.

"Oui. I speak little bit," he smiled, eyes twinkling.

"Good. What is it you came to see me about?" I questioned.

"Come to meet ze ballet. I translate for you, okay? Zey are very eager to meet le nouvelle directuer," he explained.

"Oh, okay. I'm coming." I followed the kind man down the dimly lot hallway.

"My name is Flourence. Flourence DeChancy," he added.

"Pleasure to meet you. I'm Breanna Herron," I responded, smiling.

We entered the theatre backstage. I stared up in mixed horror and awe. The ceiling was dizzyingly high and I had to keep from staring to avoid crashing into one of the employees bustling around. There were several catwalks, dozens upon dozens of ropes, lights, and props as well as costumes. I wasn't afraid of heights, I firmly told everyone who asked, nor was I scared of falling. You see it's not the fall that kills you. It's the sudden stop at the end.

We entered the stage, which was larger than I expected and the rest of the theatre was even more so. The mahogany curtains had been drawn back to reveal the countless rows of seats and, looming over it all, the replacement chandelier. The kind melodic voice of the elder Frenchman tugged my mind from the clouds.

He introduced me as the new manager of the Palais Garnier. I smiled sheepishly and waved. A few of the ballerinas snickered or giggled while the others politely smiled and waved back. A few of the younger ones smiled shyly or looked ready to burst from excitement. The gentleman acknowledged me kindly.

"This is Madame Decrispé," he said. "She has charge of the rehearsals and practice."

A rather stern looking women nodded her head curtly in acknowledgement. She held herself erect and looked like a no-nonsense type of person. She had her hair tied up in a tight bun, which enhanced her strict appearance. Her eyes were rather dark, almost black, and bore into mine as if reading my thoughts and probing the deepest darkest caverns of my soul. I suppressed a shudder at the thought.

I smiled and nodded in response.

"-and may I introduce, our lead dancers, Monsieur Beaumont and Mademoiselle Cadhla."

Said dancers stepped forward and smiled as we shook hands. M Beaumont did look handsome and well toned from his years of experience and he moved gracefully. But he seemed to have an air of cockiness and self pride that I was a bit unsure of. Two words came to my mind the second he kissed my hand and threw me a grin that clearly said "I know, I'm fabulous". Foppish pansy.

Then came Mlle Cadhle. Her hair was naturally curly and a softer shade of ginger. Her kind, green gray eyes sparkled as she shook my hand gently. She had a long, graceful neck and long legs. Mlle Cadhle looked and walked like a dancer. I could tell she was a lot less narcissistic than her partner, thank the stars.

"It is good to meet you," I said, speaking in slightly broken French, but thankfully not too bad. She smiled at my attempt.

"It's okay, French was hard for me to learn, too. I'm Irish. I used be a tour guide for Americans visiting Ireland," she replied.

"Really? That's wonderful, I love the Irish culture. I've always wanted to visit Ireland," I rambled enthusiastically.

"Perhaps I could take you there," she responded.

"I would love that."

Someone cleared their throat and soon the other dancers were introduced. I attempted to remember all of their names, but I knew it would take time. Some that I remembered was Raeya Ponce, who had wavy black hair and seemed a bit clutzy, Felicity André, with straight light brown hair that curled at the bottom, and Sarafina Firmin, whose short and straight hair was a nice shade of auburn.

Felicity was the eldest of the ballet youth at the proud age of fourteen while Sarafina came second at thirteen "and a half" she added much to Felicity's embarrassment. Whilst Felicity was witty, Sarafina was, to put it kindly, ignorant.

"-our little diva, Vallerie Lavelle, and last, but not least, Selene Malay."

While Vallerie seemed outgoing, Selene seemed quieter and shy. She stared at the ground as if trying to memorize every last detail of the stage's floor. I smiled at this. _They are both so cute_, I thought.

Vallerie had long sandy blonde hair with hazel eyes and rosy cheeks. She stood straight, alert, and looked quite dainty. She seemed the shorter of the two, but only by a half inch or so.

Selene had dark brown eyes and dark hair as well that was held up in a bun. She also had a daintiness about her and both seemed really rather young. I wouldn't have been surprised if they were six or seven.

"Well, now that you're familiar with our corps de ballet we can allow them to return to their rehearsals," said DeChancy. I nodded in agreement and we left.

M DeChancy showed me around the rest of the grand opera house. We explored the many dressing rooms, corridors, staircases, and soaked in all the beautiful architecture. He told me the stories behind statues of Greek characters such as Apollo and his lyre or of cherubs.

Lastly we visited the stables, which we spent a bit more time in so I could obsess over the beautiful white-gray, chestnut, and black horses. I enjoyed them all, even the rather moody albino called Finntan. There were French Trotters, Mérens, and Carmagues. After familiarizing myself with each and every gelding, mare, foal, and stallion we left.

"It was good meeting you, Mademoiselle. I must return to my office. I have much to do," he said. "If you need me you can call. I will come."

I thanked him for his help and retreated to my room. Once in my room I collapsed on my bed, sighing. My eye caught sight of a piece of paper on my dresser. The black-bordered note I had received earlier.

I picked it up and read it, then retread it. What did it mean? Who would write this?

"Who would have the gall to send this?" I sang softly. "Someone with a puerile mind. And it is signed O.G, who on earth is he?!"

The room was silent.

"Opera Ghost," I added. I just couldn't resist it.

The silence that followed was loud and I decided now would be a good time to read until dinner.

Stuffing the note into my pocket, I picked "The Prince and the Pauper" from the shelf. I smiled at the book that had been one of my favorites in fourth grade, then sat down on the cushioned window seat and dove right in.

**Thank you for reviewing! **** You guys are great. For those who are confused, a gelding is a male horse that has been "fixed". Nice little fact I'm sure you all wanted to know. Au revoir! **


	6. Chapter 6

**I actually looked at the menu for the restaurant at the Palais Garnier and chose the foods I thought sounded most appetizing for chapter 4. I've never eaten there but I'm sure the food tastes phantastic. Oh, and I'll try to get those typos fixed. Thank you for pointing them out. We can't have a story with typos. Please review. Erik will address those who do. **

**Erik: what am I? A prize?**

**Me: yup X) go ahead, girls!**

**Fangirls: *run at Erik***

**Erik: ?!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own POTO. End of story-no, not this one. Just the discussion...end of discussion. Away with you!- no! Come back and read, just know I don't own POTO.**

**Chapter 5**

**It's a girl!**

Erik's POV

Erik stared from Box Five as M DeChancy introduced the new manager. But it wasn't a man he introduced, oh no _far_ from it. It was a _woman._ She was young lady with long chestnut hair. She was rather short and looked extremely familiar. Where had he seen her?

Suddenly it hit him. He whipped around almost immediately, his cape fanning out behind him and travelled through the shadows into one of his secret passages. Leaping into the gondola waiting at the dock, he untied it and pushed off.

The second he reached his destination, he tied the boat and stormed into his lair, his thoughts jumbled and incoherent. He paced the ornate carpet, trying to compose himself.

"A woman? Running _my_ opera house? I suppose it would happen sooner or later, I knew that much deep down. But of all women it had to be _her_. Not that there's anything wrong with that, I suppose," he muttered. Suddenly he remembered the note and he ran a hand through his hair, frustrated and horrified.

"What have I done?"

"I don't know, Erik. Do tell."

Erik whipped around and found Nadir standing at the door near his library, a book held in one hand.

Erik growled in annoyance. "What do you want, daroga?"

"Absolutely nothing. I just ask that you explain why you are despairing," he replied coolly.

Erik narrowed his eyes. It was natural for Nadir to be nosy and he often meddled in Erik's affairs. It never ceased to annoy him. There was more than one occasion when he was tempted to do something violent and a few times he did. Even then, Erik never went too far although his instincts screamed in protest. This was one of those times.

"There is no cause for it, my dear daroga," he hissed.

"It isn't nothing if you are so bothered by it," Nadir pressed.

"The discussion is closed," Erik snapped.

"Indeed it is. How about the above world? How are things going with the mortals," he asked.

"There is a new manager," Erik began.

"Really? What's their name?"

There was a pause, then finally,"Breanna Herron, an American," Erik answered.

Nadir's eyes widened in shock and Erik felt pride in the fact that he had caused this bout of surprise, which so rarely befell the Persian.

"It is a girl?" he asked.

Erik nodded in confirmation.

Nadir was silent for a few moments, then burst out laughing. Erik glared daggers at the daroga. Eventually Nadir was able to compose himself and he straightened.

"Oh dearest Erik, is that what has you in such a tussle?" he finally asked.

"Perhaps," Erik said. He rarely gave off emotions aside from anger or frustration. He hid his feelings of unease and excitement.

"Well things will definitely get interesting around here," Nadir chuckled.

Erik shrugged. "We can only wonder," he murmured.

...

Breanna's POV

Breanna sighed and closed her book, glancing at the clock. It was about twenty minutes until dinner. She had arranged to eat with the ballerinas and planned to have a sort of sleepover in her room. The girls had spare cots in their dormitories and should be able to bring their own blankets.

She desperately wanted to get to know the ballerinas of the Opéra and planned to do so through a sleepover with some of the younger ones. The older ones she would no doubt get to know over dinner.

After fixing her hair and changing into a nice light purple dress, she slipped on her high heels and hurried to the Opéra restaurant. Once there, Breanna relaxed. Five minutes early. Just five.

The dinner was in a word dull. The adults sat at one table, the younger ones at another. The highlight of the evening was the food and the girls' excitement when she told them about the sleepover and they quickly finished off their sorbet so they could gather the things they wanted to bring.

The conversation with the elder employees went something along the lines of the weather, politics, and so on. As soon as their dessert plates were removed, Breanna took the opportunity and left. Quickly.

She returned to her room and was able to push the chairs from her room into the manager's office. Then she set out refreshments on the little table by the fireplace. Lemonade (she wondered if they has ever had lemonade), cookies, assorted candies and chocolates, and even some pastry puffs with ice cream from the kitchens.

Once everything was set to her satisfaction, Breanna sat on her bed and read, waiting for the girls to come. Not long after, there were some whispers, then a tentative knock.

"Don't be such a _poltron_, Selene," snapped the voice of a fourteen year old.

"Yeah, like this."

There was a louder, but polite, rap. Holding back a giggle, Breanna opened the door.

"Come on in," she beamed, and then stepped aside. There were stares at the beautiful room before them as the curious little rats tentatively entered. Vallerie's eyes snapped to the refreshments.

"Are those for us?" she asked hopefully.

Breanna nodded, her smile growing wider. "Bonne appetite."

The girls hurriedly set up their cots and each took a plate then piled it with sweets. The hostess of the jovial event poured each of them a glass of lemonade, which they gladly accepted.

It was an extremely enjoyable event many would remember the next day with smiles and giggles because poor clumsy Raeya tripped and spilled her lemonade on Felicity. As it got later at night they soon calmed down and began telling stories.

"-and to this day my uncle still swears he saw the creature," whispered Lily Robineau ominously. There were several tense moments of silence, then...

"Swearing is bad," piped Vallerie. Everyone burst into laughter. "I'm just saying," she muttered, shrinking into Breanna's lap. She smiled and patted her little shadow's head. Vallerie had found a sort of friend, a second mother, in the manager and where she went, Vallerie followed along with Selene, who did not wish to be left alone. So she was sitting cross-legged with the two young ballerinas seated on her lap. Being rather small, only Breanna's head and legs gave any indication there was someone there.

"Alright, who's next? And it better be a good one," said Felicity.

"How about the Phantom of the Opera? Maybe he has a good story," chimed Vallerie.

Silence.

"Vallerie, there is no Phantom of the Opera," said Sarafina.

"Yes there is! I saw him once. Selene saw him too," Vallerie protested. Selene nodded.

"Of course, little Selene saw this, Selene sees everything and yet _nothing_," said Felicity mockingly.

"But it's true! One time she saw a Persian gentleman disappear into a wall!"

"Along with the cat spirit Maragot," Sarafina jested.

"That's not his name," whispered Selene.

"What?" Felicity looked at her incredulously.

"It wasn't Maragot. Maragot is a spirit. The vanishing black cat is living."

"Oh honestly, Selene," moaned Felicity.

...

Erik's POV

I frowned at the comment. André's little heir has been quite the nuisance and were it I as manager she would be removed. But I said nothing since she was a rather valuable dancer and if not for that fact she would be dismissed immediately.

Breanna cleared her throat then asked if the girls would like to sing a song.

"Why don't you sing _us_ a song? I'm sure you have a lovely voice," suggested Vallerie.

Soon the other little ballet rats had convinced her to sing them a song. I found myself press closer to the double-sided mirror, interested. She soon gave in, stood up, and left. A few moments later she returned with a violin.

"What kind of song? Happy, sad?"

"How about something exciting and new?" asked Vallerie. I felt myself lose interest. I did not care for modern day music much.

"I've got an idea!" Breanna said. "Let's honor our dear friend, the Phantom with a song. Something that he will like."

I froze. The girls cheered and Breanna grinned. A song for _me_?

"Alright. What song shall we sing?" questioned Breanna.

"A sad song."

_As if I need more sadness_, I thought irritably.

"An angry song," said another.

_To echo my feelings_, I mused.

"How about something nicer? More kind?" Breanna suggested.

"Do something new!" suggested one of the girls.

"Ok, I've got one. Excuse my singing, but this one should be fun," she said.

"That's okay," said Vallerie dismissively.

"Okay," Breanna said, shyly.

_Hurry up_, I thought impatiently. Then she finally sang.

"High is the moon tonight

Hiding its guiding light

High"

It was beautiful. She sang like an angel. Sure, a few rough edges showing she hadn't been personally taken aside and trained, but she seemed to have been trained.

"Heaven and earth do sleep

Still in the dark so deep

I will the darkness sweep

I will the moon to flight

I will the heavens bright

I will the earth delight

Open your eyes with me

See paradise with me

Awake and arise with me

"We know this song! Right Selene?" Vallerie interrupted. Selene nodded.

I felt a stab of annoyance at the interruption.

"Well join in if you do," Breanna answered. So a few girls did.

"I am the dawn, I'm the new day begun

I bring you the morning, I bring you the sun

I hold back the night and I open the skies

I give light to the world, I give sight to your eyes

From the first of all time, until time is undone

Forever and ever and ever and ever

And I am the dawn and the sky and the sun

I am one with the One, and I am the dawn"

They stopped and clapped and danced as Breanna played her violin. I felt myself tapping a foot unconsciously, but quickly stopped in case I was heard.

"I am the sky and the dawn and the sun

I am the sky and the new day begun

I am the sky and the dawn and the sun!" they finished, then clapped and giggled.

Breanna set down her violin and beamed. "That was beautiful," she cried.

Beautiful was an understatement, I thought. Although there were a few rough edges with resonance, they harmonized well.

Suddenly there was a squeal as one of the girls elbowed Breanna playfully in the stomach.

"Ticklish?" asked the girl.

"Yea," she replied. Suddenly she was buried and laughter filled the air. I raised an eyebrow in amusement as she managed to escape their clutches and a pillow fight issued. It truly was an amusing sight, as I had only witnessed a few from the ballet rats when they slept out on the stage for fun. Their chatter and laughter was enough to wake the whole of Paris!

After the tempest had settled they were all tired and retired to their respective cots, some still whispering and giggling. I decided to take my leave, still thinking hard about what I had just witnessed. The song and the music, that is. I wandered aimlessly around the dark corridors, allowing my feet to take me where they wished.

**Hope you enjoyed it. **** I do not own the song "The Sun and the Sky and the Dawn". Celtic Woman does. It really is a beautiful song, although the introductory is painfully long. It is a pretty violin solo, though. Au revoir! Until tomorrow, mes amis!**


	7. Chapter 7

**You're still here? Well that's phantastic! Roses w/ black ribbons and half masks and fedoras for all! **

**On with our tale.**

**Erik: Oh, might I add, a special thanks to PhantomFan01, Lola Spears, Moodoo, and Kitty for reviewing and supporting Lady Merridell. Do continue reading or we'll all suffer another disclaimer ditty T.T. Please don't leave me with her.**

**Me: now now, Erik, be nice. You know you like them**

**Erik: no I don't**

**Me: you love them**

**Erik: you call it music?**

**Me: you want to hear more**

**Erik: I'd rather get stoned, dragged out into the street and shot**

**Me: that's a bit extreme**

**Erik: I was just getting started**

**Me: ok, moving on!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera or Love Never Dies. Capish? Caposh!**

**Chapter 6**

**The Shadow Cat**

Breanna's POV

I woke up in a cold sweat. For the second time that night I had dreamed I was drowning. I had struggled to resurface, but someone had their hand on my throat, forcing me under the dark waves and choking me at the same time. The freezing waves felt almost too real and I could feel the musky lake water clogging my throat. I shuddered at the memory.

I slipped out of bed and got into my slippers and pulled on a robe. Careful not to wake any of the girls, I tiptoed out. A walk, that's what I needed. Fresh air, maybe, and water. I brought a brush and a flashlight. For now I didn't need the flashlight since the light from a few windows faintly lit the hallway. I dragged the brush through my tangled hair.

Once it was untangled to my satisfaction, I stuffed it in my pocket. I may not care too much about looks, but I didn't want to be caught looking like I had been dragged through brambles and back.

Eventually my heart rate slowed, but I still felt a bit skittish and jumped at every creak and shadow. The dream was still fresh in my mind. I turned on my flashlight, but regretted it. It just made my situation a bit scarier. Alone in the large opera house with only shadows to keep me company. Wasn't this usually the part in horror films when something jumps out? I chided myself for being so childish.

I tripped and suddenly I tore off, heart racing. I speed into the kitchen and slammed the door. I felt stupid. All I did was trip on my robe and I ran like a coward. Perhaps it was my skittishness, my momentary weakness and lack of alert, that made me run. Sighing, I filled a glass with cold water. I took several swigs, and then washed it and put it with the rest of the dirty dishes.

Glancing around, I stepped out into the hallway and tried to remember which way I had come. But as I travelled down the corridor I was sure I had run, my confidence faded. No, this could not be it. Again, panic. Was I lost?

I turned around, my footsteps, although light, still echoed a bit in the impressive golden hall. The marble floors picked up even the slightest sound and I winced at every footstep. Where had my light tread gone?

Eventually I just sat down beside an ebony statue of some Greek mythology figure. I curled up against it, pulling my knees close and looked around trying to map out the Opera Populaire in my mind. I observed my surroundings.

Smaller golden chandeliers hung from the ceiling, which was splashed with golds both pale and dark as well as reds, blues, and so on. As my eyes adjusted they took the forms of Greek figures wearing laurel wreaths, basking in the glory of Olympus. There were other figures of men in togas and women swathed in white robes, feasting upon grapes and wine.

The floor was a golden marble with silver moonlight spilling in from the windows. Sprouting from there were impressive columns of golden pillars. Engraved along the bottom of the columns and along the ceiling were flowers and other designs.

A soft meow off to my right caused me to jump and I twisted around to see the offending creature.

A cat? Here in the Palais Garnier? How? Sitting in the shadows, looking quite lithe and regal, but with its icy blue eyes narrowed, as if wondering whether or not I was worthy to be in his presence. The moonlight turned its fur a dark silver. Finally it stood, stretched, then padded over to me.

As if seeing my distress, it laid a paw on my knee, looked at me, licked my nose, turned and padded a ways down the hall. I stared at it-him-incredulously. It turned and yowled, as if calling for me to follow. So I did. As soon as it saw I was following, he turned and streaked off.

It lead me through twists and turns, up and down, left and right. Where was he taking me? It was getting darker. Suddenly I entirely lost sight of my guide. I could just make out his eye shine, which didn't make me feel any less panicked.

I pulled out my flashlight and turned it on, shining it around. Looks like I was backstage. My flashlight flickered a bit. I hit it against the palm of my hand, trying to get it to stop. Out of the corner of my eye I something dark speed past. Jumping I whipped around, trying to find what it was.

Why was I so jumpy? I felt weak from it, but I couldn't help it. Taking a breath I plunged on. I couldn't help but wish for a wall I could have my back to. Somehow it was comforting to know I could see everything. Nothing could sneak up behind me.

I shined my light on the cat. He turned and looked at me, his eyes flashing, then turned at lead on. Then my flashlight flickered again and this time it did not come back on. I felt a twinge of fear, but brushed it off. After a few moments my eyes adjusted to the dark. We were approaching another grand staircase. There seemed to be a modest amount of them around the opera house.

We both plunged deeper into the dark. I followed him down narrow corridors, staircases, and more winding halls-which were no doubt impressive in the light.

The black cat would let out a meow or a gentle hiss every now and then. It became darker and darker until I couldn't see my hand an inch from my face. By this time holding out your hand and feeling around blindly it was all one could do to avoid crashing into things.

That's when he disappeared entirely. Gone. Like a foolish maiden I had followed the kelpie or a sailor to the Sirens. There were no meows or eye shine to guide me. I felt fear rising. Had he left me here to grope around in the dark? I was so tired...so very, very tired, but I couldn't very well just fall asleep on the spot.

...

Erik's POV

The advanced darkness surrounded me, embracing me. I reveled in it, enjoying the cover it provided. True, the warmth of the sun was appreciated every now and then, but the darkness it where monsters roam. Where beasts find their solace. A cursed place that man feared and avoided. Exactly where I belonged. Isolated in the cover of the shadows where no one would wish to seek me.

I heard my feline companion approaching and he was not alone. Several feet away stood the manager, looking quite scared and disoriented. I sighed softly as the sly black cat sat on my shoe and looked up at me.

"You are horrid," I murmured softly. "Why would you lead her into the darkness? I do not feel like returning her myself if that's what you wanted."

"Who's there?" the girl started, looking around cautiously. I silently cursed myself for speaking aloud.

I glanced down at the ebony cat with his large, calculating blue eyes. He simply leapt into my shoulder and settled there, obviously not about to move. So be it. I would have to help the girl.

I did not use my lantern as often, preferring to roam in the darkest of shadows although the light was appreciated every now and then. I struck a match and lit it.

...

Breanna's POV

A light flickered from behind ever so suddenly. Breanna turned on her heel to find a lantern, just lit, sitting on the floor. She looked around, fear and curiosity evident in her eyes. Nonetheless, she felt obligated to move closer to the warmth and guidance it offered.

Reaching out a hand tentatively, she touched it as though it might burn or bite her. There was a snort somewhere in the dark. Breanna froze and looked around nervously. After several moments spent in loud, suffocating silence she returned to the lantern and picked it up.

"Hello? Where are you, kitty?" she called softly. No response. "Does this lantern belong to anybody?" Silence. Sighing, she headed for the stage, planning to cut across its smooth oak floorboards rather than in the backstage with its shifting shadows.

The large, mohogony curtains had been drawn, revealing the barren stage to the immense theatre. The plush, scarlet chairs seemed to go on forever. The boxes were empty and it was silent enough that a pin dropping would appear as loud as a motor. The chandelier loomed overhead and one could not help but stare at it for its size and majesty.

Breanna's light tread was as soundless as she could manage, not wishing to disturb the silence. The only light was that of the lantern, a pinprick of golden orange light. She set down the lantern, and gaped at the scene before her. The impressive theatre still held wonders for her. Majestic and beautiful.

After a few moments Breanna suddenly remembered how tired she was and went on her way. As she lay in bed, she pondered on what had just happened. The cat, the lantern, the shadows, the irrational fears... Soon sleep claimed her as its own and she gave in willingly.

...

The next day everyone returned to their dorms to dress and then go to the kitchens for breakfast.

However, the young manager had chosen to stay behind, asking for nothing but toast with an egg on it and orange juice. To those in the kitchens it was an insult and did their best to make it as grand and tasteful as you can make toast with eggs.

Breanna smiled at their attempts and sent a note of thanks to the chef, hoping to make up for it. The French are usually quite passionate about their cuisine and only serve the finest. Of course, this was appreciated by one such manager and the plate was soon regretfully empty.

She found herself sipping the orange juice as she glanced over documents and sorted them into two piles. Papers she didn't understand and papers she didn't. Of course, there was no need to go over them, but she decided to any way. Might as well look like she was actually working, right?

There was a soft knock on the door. Quickly finishing the sentence she was reviewing, Breanna tossed the paper into the 'I don't get it' pile and opened the door.

A rather portly gentleman was waiting patiently outside. He might have been in his late thirties or so and his dark mocha hair was peppered with gray. His beady hazel eyes calmly observed her and he held out a meaty hand and firmly shook hers. "Monsieur Herman at your service, mademoiselle. I am here to assist you in your-ahem-managing duties."

"Indeed? You work for Craig?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"Come in," she smiled and stepped aside.

"Thank you," he mumbled, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.

The two spent several hours reviewing long documents about this and that, M Herman doing most of the talking. He told her what to sign, what to approve and reject. Like a puppet, she did all that he said. Even when she felt unsure, he ignored her concerns and told her to sign it. So she did, trusting Craig's associate or whatever they were to eachother.

Once they had finished she felt drained. Mostly from the long, boring hours reviewing documents she did not care for in the least. All she had to do was sign them or not. That was all.

"Monsieur," she asked suddenly as said person was gathering up the stacks of paper.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Do you happen to know who sent this? I wonder if it was a joke of some sort or do you know of anyone with these initials?" she held out the black-bordered letter with the note inside.

The businessman's eyes bugged at the note and he took it, read over it.

"Where did you get this?" he breathed.

"I found it on my desk the other day. I wonder if someone is playing a trick on the new manager."

M Herman was silent then he tucked it away.

"I'm sure Craig would be interested in this. Maybe we can find who wrote this," he babbled distractedly. He showed himself out, muttered a quick thank you, and left.

Breanna just stared at his retreating figure, pondering his odd behavior. Shrugging, she walked into her room and lay down on her bed. _Just a quick one_, she thought.

...

Erik's POV

I stormed down the passageway. How dare he?! The nerve of that cursed Persian! Was he really so foolish? Ignorant?!

He wasn't in the main living room. I stormed down the passageway feeling murderous. I flung open the door to my vast library. There he was. Sitting in a chair, with a book, the fireplace alight, and this annoyingly content look on his face. I was tempted to slap it off, but my hand shot for his throat instead.

I felt a twinge of pleasure at the look of shock written across his face, jade eyes wide with surprise.

"How could you?! Are you so ignorant as to let yourself be seen? Entering one of my passages? By a ballet rat, nonetheless!" I roared.

"Erik, c-calm yourself," the daroga choked. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

My grip tightened. Although we could not die pain was never absent.

"You know perfectly well! Mademoiselle Malay saw a Persian gentleman disappear into the wall! You know very well our existence is not to be known," I hissed.

"Erik, let go! It was only one time," he rasped, eyes bulging. I sneered and released him. The daroga rubbed his throat painfully.

"You know, there are times I wonder why I'm still here," said Nadir.

"You know very well why, Daroga, and I suggest you be more cautious when you leave on one of your little 'outings'."

With these parting words, I swept out and retreated to my music room with its various instruments. After maneuvering around the piles of blank music sheets and arias I sat at my much smaller, but beautifully crafted, organ. I continued on to compose my newest opera, _Amer est le Vie._


	8. Chapter 8

**Props to everyone for sticking around! Thank you so much for supporting my story! And now I bring you chapter 7! Finally the two meet! Again! **

**Lovest Always, Lady Merridell**

**Disclaimer: I don't own PotO. Other famous clever people do. I'm merely writing a phanphiction to express my love and appreciation for it.**

**Erik: yes, I'm sure**

**Me: shush you**

**Chapter 7**

**Poking Your Nose Where You Know You Shouldn't, But You Did It Anyway**

Breanna's POV

It was dark. Much darker than she remembered. What time was it?

Breanna sat up and glanced at the clock. Seven thirty. It was well past lunch and dinner. However she didn't feel very hungry, just groggy.

She slipped out of bed and sighed, rubbing the sleep out of her right eye. Breanna thought about reading a book until hunger presented itself, but tossed the book aside after one minute into chapter one. She flinched when it hit the panel of the large mirror on the wall.

_It better not have damaged anything_, she thought. She rose to go check it when there was a groaning, creaking noise followed by a series of clicks like thousands of old rusted cogs that had not been in use for a very long time. Breanna watched with growing shock as the glass slide aside to reveal a dark passageway.

It was five minutes until she realized her mouth hung open and she abruptly closed it. A cool breeze escaped with a sigh causing her to shiver. The breeze filled the air with a rather dank and musty scent.

She peered into the dark passageway curiously. For a moment she hesitated, but pushed her fear aside and stepped in, stumbling a bit into the wall. There was another click and the mirror slid shut.

Panicking she whipped around and attempted to pry open the door. Tears of frustration threatened to spill and she brushed them aside angrily. It was pitch black and she had no way of seeing where the path would lead her.

After several fruitless attempts to open the door she resigned to her fate and turned around. There were two passages that lead left and right. She chose right. _After all, when in doubt choose the right, right? _She thought.

Breanna stumbled down the damp tunnel, feeling the wall tentatively. There was the slight fear that her hand would skim over the hairy back of a spider or wad of cobwebs. However all she felt was the cool stonewall.

She walked slowly, cautiously. The passage echoed ominously with her nervous breaths and creaking floorboards. Eventually the wood was replaced with stone steps she almost fell down.

After several minutes spent carefully maneuvering down the steep steps her foot hit the ground with a loud _creeeaaaak_. She winced at the noise and took another step. Suddenly the floor dropped out from under her and, screaming, she flailed managing to cling to the edge of the floor. Her heart raced, her thoughts drowning in fear, and suddenly one of her worst fears was about to come true.

...

Erik's POV

He closed his eyes and allowed his hands to lightly skim over the keys of the grand organ. The notes created a rather beautiful and yet sad song. One of my finer compositions, he mused. The chords flowed into a more content tone and he paused to scribble them down.

As he continued a sudden horrible screech interrupted before the notes could crescendo into a particularly difficult chord he had been determined to perfect. At first he tried to ignore it. However the wails persisted and he slammed the ivories in frustration.

His rage was instantly replaced by horror at the distressed screams. Someone had found his secret passageways and it sounded very much like a certain manager.

Erik pulled on his cloak and snatched his fedora. Nadir, thankfully, was taking a nap and he was able to escape without questioning. He rowed as quickly as the gondola would allow him. They weren't exactly built for speed.

The cries for help soon died down and he ran all the faster, hoping that she was all right. He paused and listened. There was a faint little moan up the stairs in the darker tunnels on the fourth floor.

...

Breanna's POV

Below her was the roar of a large underground river of some sort. Breanna knew that if she fell it would not end well. She tried to pull herself up, but her arms didn't seem to want to cooperate. They were shaky and all she could do was hang there until someone came... _if_ someone ever bothered to come down her.

Breanna considered her options. She could let go and hope that she would survive. Or she could cling to the edge and rot. Or she could keep trying. The latter sounded like a much better idea.

Grunting and groaning, she tried to pull herself onto solid ground. Eventually she resolved to calling for help. Seconds stretched into minutes. Breanna, tired, laid her head on the cold stone ground and closed her eyes, waiting. She could feel herself beginning to slip and whimpered.

_So be it_, she thought, _my arms hurt and no one knows about this place._

Soon she the only thing that prevented her from falling was her hands. She looked down, tears in her eyes, and prepared to let go. Before she could, however, a pair of strong, gloved hands wrapped around her wrists and pulled her onto solid ground.

Breanna sobbed gratefully, thanking her savior over and over in a small voice, hoarse from fear. She lay facedown on the floorboards, too weak to stand. Eventually she rolled over to look up at her rescuer and found no one there.

She squinted in the darkness, but couldn't see anyone.

"Hello?" she whispered.

There was a pause. Then..."Yes?"

Breanna's heart leapt. The voice was gentle and seemed very familiar.

"Who's there?"

Another pause. "A friend," it answered tentatively. "Are you well?"

"I-I think so," Breanna replied. She tried to stand up, but her legs felt like jelly. Growling, she managed to stand up and leaned against the wall. Suddenly a wave of nausea overtook her and she felt extremely lightheaded.

She leaned over ready to vomit, but instead-for the first time in her life- she fainted.

...

Erik's POV

Erik pulled her up out of harm's way.

"Thank you thank you," Breanna sobbed. He just stared in wonder as she continued to deliver a string of thank yous in between her weeping. _What was this? What should I do?_

Erik thought to comfort her but he felt frozen. Eventually she calmed down long enough to ask if he was there.

"Yes," he answered tentatively. He proceeded to ask if she was all right. She was rather pale and shivered from cold, or maybe it was nerves. He couldn't tell.

Then she tried to stand and after a few tries managed to stand. Breanna leaned over and for a moment he thought she would be sick until she collapsed in a dead faint.

Erik darted forward and caught her. She looked so small and delicate that he was frightened he might break her.

He lifted her carefully into his arms and decided against taking her up to her room. She needed help. Unfortunately, only help Nadir could offer. Curse him.

Of course, he loathed the idea that he relied on the Persian at all, but for the sake of the young manager he put it aside and hurriedly rowed across the underground lake.

He lifted her out of the vessel and rushed into his home, frantically calling for the daroga.

...

Nadir's POV

Life with Erik was not exactly ideal. Sure, there was always plenty to eat and much to read. There was always music and he always got the best seat in the opera house-Box Five.

However Erik was the opposite of good company. He was reserved, so Nadir was often quite lonely. Erik also had an impressive temper and was known to break things. Anything in his way he threw and anything living he strangled. It was simply Erik's ways.

Oh yes, he had tried to change Erik. Tried to teach him that perhaps violence isn't the answer. But, as always, he resorted to his ways.

Then again, living with Erik was not too bad. They still had good times and played a great deal of chess (most of which Erik won.) Erik taught him to sing. They read books, shared news, and argued. A lot. Usually Erik was the one arguing. Nadir preferred not to participate, preferring to allow Erik to let out some steam.

One thing was for certain. Erik was independent. He ran the opera (though not as much as he once did). Rarely did he ask for Nadir's assistance. The only person that Erik ever asked for help was Madame Giry, who delivered most of his notes and cleaned Box Five.

Nadir felt a sudden sadness overcome him at the thought of the ballet mistress. She had died from a bout of smallpox she picked up on a visit to Sweden. Of course, poor Comtess de Chagny had blamed herself for inviting Mme Giry and her daughter, the Baroness de Barbazac, to accompany her and the Comte to Sweden.

Nadir was jolted out of his thoughts when the sound of Erik's voice frantically called him outside. He leapt to his feet and rushed out to find his masked friend holding a pale girl, apparently unconscious.

"Oh, Erik," he moaned. "Not _another_ one."


	9. Chapter 9

**Sorry for not updating sooner. I was drowning in homework and I had a choir concert to worry about. It all turned out well in the end, thankfully. I promise that the only time I won't post unless I have a really good excuse like too much hw, a choir concert (I will suffer a brutal death I don't sing…jk ;) ) someone died, or I'm deathly ill. The longest I don't update should be up to three days. I'm thinking of just doing third person POV the rest of the story. Idk, sometimes first person is necessary. We shall see :) please review, enjoy, and read my other phanphic, The Call. **

**Lovest Always, Lady Merridell**

**Disclaimer: I never will own the Phantom of the Opera or anything related no matter how many stars I wish upon. It's all a lie. Your dreams don't come true just cause you asked a burning ball of gas for it. Sad day :(**

**Chapter 8**

**The Monkey, the Persian, and the Wardrobe (the extensive wardrobe)**

**Breanna's POV**

She was comfortable. This was a statement, a fact, not an opinion. Her mind was not clear. Another fact. Oh, and incredibly groggy. Did she feel any emotions right now? No. It was all fact. It was the only thing she could focus on in this foggy state of mind. She felt devoid of all emotion.

Then she remembered everything that happened and her eyes snapped open. Her eyes took several minutes to adjust and she sat up with difficulty. She glanced around the room in disbelief. She rubbed her eyes.

_Am I dead? Did I fall and die? Was that man just some sort of illusion?_

The room was no doubt beautiful...and expensive. It was also old fashioned, but it was the kind of old fashioned that was ageless in style. Of course, she was no expert in style, but even she could tell it was very well put together. Was that the proper term?

She shook the thought away and took note of everything that was there.

A merry little flame snapped, crackled, and popped in the grate. The mantle was handsomely carved and was decorated with little trinkets. There were bejeweled figurines of exotic animals and even a music box with a little monkey in green Persian robes. They were all a sparkling, but organized, mass of gold, silver, and bronze shining in the firelight.

In front of the fireplace was a beautiful Persian rug. The large four-poster bed was in front of the fireplace and had large, satin drapes a delicate shade of blue. Next to the bed was a little nightstand with a lamp and a vase with fresh red roses.

The marble flooring reflected almost everything in the room. There was a love seat next to a large window with a view of an underground lake. There was a walk-in closet full of who-knows-what.

Lastly, there was a very pretty white and gold vanity next to the gothic oak door.

Breanna moaned at all of the perfumes and gem encrusted brushes, combs, and pins as well as flower clips. Of course, she didn't moan joyfully. She felt rather dizzy thinking about all of the wealth surrounding her. She was scared to even move, thinking she might break something if she even breathed. Here was the klutzy brunette in a room full of breakables. Who could have chosen a worse combination?

_I'll just be extra careful_, she told herself. Taking a deep breath, she stood. Nothing broke.

Breanna sighed in relief. Perhaps she was exaggerating her clumsiness just a bit. So she took another step and stumbled, feeling very wobbly. Suddenly she felt something rise in her throat. _Oh no, not here!_

Breanna looked around desperately for a trashcan. There wasn't one. _Are you kidding me?! Whoever made this place could at least have the decency to include a trashcan!_

She stumbled out into the hallway, one hand clutching her aching stomach and the other covering her mouth. It rose faster. _Quick! Where now?!_

Tears stung her eyes. This was awful. Thankfully, someone heard her distressed moans and a rather surprised Persian gentleman poked his head out from one of the many doors. His mouth opened in a comical o shape and he disappeared briefly into the room and reappeared holding a trash can.

He waited patiently while she emptied her stomach's contents, patting her back all the while.

"What's going on, Daroga?" asked a deep, melodious voice. One that Breanna was quite familiar with. She looked up and saw a face hidden in the shadows. It stepped closer and the first thing she noticed was the white of a mask.

Breanna opened her mouth to stay something but was surprised when instead she vomited. Her cheeks burned in embarrassment.

"Done?" asked Daroga. She nodded miserably and the kind gentleman helped her to her feet, jade eyes glinting pitifully.

"Is there anywhere that I can wash off?" she whispered, staring down at her feet. The masked gentleman seemed to jerk into attention and took her elbow. He gently steered her down the hall into a large and luxurious marble bathroom. Once again, she hesitated to move and felt out of place in the large and luxurious atmosphere, but the masked man wouldn't hear of it and pulled her along.

He turned on the faucet for her and she murmured a quick thanks before rinsing away the sick. She glanced down at the white nightgown and saw a few flecks of vomit.

"I'm sorry," she whispered hoarsely.

"It's not your fault," he mumbled.

"Umm...you don't happen to have any clean clothes, do you?" she asked shyly.

The man stared a moment and nodded. She noticed his features for the first time. He was Caucasian and had dark brown hair slicked back. The side of his face without the mask was not unattractive. In fact, the more she looked, the more she realized he was rather handsome. His eyes were gold in the light and they showed the tiniest flicker of curiosity. He wore a poet's shirt with dress pants and a cummerbund.

"- the closet," he finished.

She smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

"I said that there is a rather large selection of dresses in the closet in the room you awoke in. Feel free to wear whichever one you want," he repeated.

"Ok. Thank you-um... What's your name?"

"Erik," he answered.

"Thank you Erik," Breanna smiled, testing out the name in her tongue. "I like that name. It was my favorite name when I was little."

She blushed, embarrassed by revealing this fact and felt even more so when he did not react. He only stared at her with those captivating gold eyes. She quickly turned and left.

Once she was inside her room- or rather the gentleman's room-she made her way over to the closet and peeked in. Her jaw fell open. There were hundreds of dresses from all over the world!

There were gauzy ball gowns, colorful frocks with lace frills, sparkling sarees, thick seal skin coats with fur lining fit for an Eskimo, and long Persian robes. She fingered a red sarafab, a smile playing about her lips, when a silky azure kimono caught her attention.

It had long, draping sleeves, a lighter colored sash tied in a large bow in the back, and silver leaves scattered across the fabric. She exchanged her nightgown for the kimono. Breanna pulled her hair in a bun and pinned it with the jeweled pins on the vanity (hesitantly, of course).

She sighed happily. It was fun to dress up like this. Once she had determined her appearance was acceptable, she stepped out into the hallway.

...

**Erik's POV**

"I have told you many times, Daroga, she was _not_ kidnapped. You mustn't jump to conclusions," growled Erik.

"Funny you should say so seeing as you tend to do the same thing," answered Nadir calmly. Erik narrowed his eyes.

"Do not chastise me when you yourself are at fault," he retorted. "Ask her what happened and perhaps you will be able to comprehend the fact that Erik the demon did something right for once."

"Erik, that's not what I-"

"Um, excuse me," interrupted a small voice. Both heads turned to the door. She looked stunning. She reminded him of a Chinese princess, except she seemed to be of British descent, and the kimono looked better on her than he thought it could anyone. Erik wished that he could stand right there for the rest of eternity and just stare at her.

"If you need me to leave I can leave immediately. I'm sorry if I'm causing you any trouble."

For a moment, Erik could only stare until Nadir broke the thick silence that had settled in the room.

"You are no trouble at all," the Persian promised. Erik could only nod. What was this emotion? He could scarcely breathe let alone think! After a few moments he was able to gain some control over his emotions long enough to offer her a seat. She thanked him and sat at the sofa beside the fireplace.

He watched her intensely, wishing he had a pencil and his notepad. She looked exotic in the firelight and he got the strangest urge to take her in his arms and just hold her. Erik shook the thought away. _You are cursed_, he reminded himself bitterly, _and cursed demons are forbidden to feel such emotions for... anyone, really._

"Where am I?" she asked, interrupting his self-loathing.

Nadir glanced at Erik, who nodded.

"You are underneath the Palais Garnier," he answered.

Her eyes widened. "Underneath it? As in directly beneath?"

"It would appear so," Erik said, teeth gritted in his effort to control himself. Where had it gone?

"So," she began, struggling to comprehend this little fact. "That would mean..." He could see several emotions cross her lovely features. Confusion-shock-excitement-confusion-wonder and confusion.

"Mean what?" coaxed Nadir.

"That he's-and forgive me if I'm wrong," she added quickly.

"I'm what?" he asked impatiently.

"That you're the-"

"Yes," he confirmed, catching on quickly. "You are correct, mademoiselle.". He swept off his fedora and bowed dramatically.

"The Phantom of the Opera at your service."


	10. Chapter 10

**I'm sorry, I know I broke my promise. I got sick and had to miss a day of school. Now I'm trying to catch up on work. I'll try to post more frequently.**

**Lovest Always, Lady Merridell**

**Disclaimer: again, I don't own Phantom of the Opera nor do I own Love Never Dies. I wish I did, but I don't :( sadly...**

**Chapter 9**

**He's Here, the Phantom of the Opera**

**Breanna's POV**

She stared. She gaped. She couldn't believe it. She couldn't breathe. She almost stood up, but decided against it. The visible eyebrow on the Phantom's face raised in amusement.

"Shocked, Mademoiselle? Shocked that the horror that is the Opera Ghost is more fact than fiction? That I am very much alive," he jeered, leaning over so that they were now eye level.

"Erik, stop it, the poor child has suffered enough without you scaring her," snapped Daroga. Erik glared at the Persian and straightened.

"Well then, since Nadir has so kindly taken care of you I'm sure he will attend to your other needs." Erik turned to leave when Nadir-Daroga-_what is his name?_-grabbed his arm.

"No, you brought her here, she's your responsibility."

Breanna watched with growing indignance as the two argued who was responsible for her. How dare they assume she was incapable of caring for herself? Of course, they had plenty of evidence that she was a walking disaster and was liable to get herself killed, but it didn't mean she was without dignity.

"Excuse me, but I am very capable of taking care of myself. If I'm such a nuisance then why don't you take me back," she demanded. The two stopped arguing. Nadir chuckled. Erik glared.

Nadir was the one to answer. "You are not a nuisance, but you have suffered quite a shock."

"Considering I almost died, yes, that is a bit of a shock," she replied with only a hint of sarcasm.

"If you wish to leave I will not keep you down here."

Breanna looked up at Erik. She almost didn't want to go, oddly enough, but when she imagined the look on Craig's face she relented.

As Erik prepared a lantern, Breanna thought to change back into her old clothes. Surely the Opera Ghost would like this expensive kimono back. When she offered to return it he shook his head.

"Keep it," he said. Then added," it looks as though it should belong to you. It compliments you very well."

At this she blushed and looked away in embarrassment. Breanna silently vowed to take very good care of it. Erik left her in what she assumed was the living room to fetch something. Whilst she waited she sat on the couch with Nadir who he introduced himself.

To her surprise and delight, a black cat strode into the room as though he owned it. Breanna instantly recognized the feline and stroked him when he settled onto her lap.

"I remember you. You left me in the dark, naughty. What's his name?" she asked absentmindedly.

"Gadelombré," came the deep, melodious reply. The brunette looked up in surprise to find Erik standing over her, holding her now clean clothes and watching the cat disapprovingly. "It means 'keeper of the shadows'."

"The name fits," she crooned, still stroking the jet black tom.

"I beg to differ. Narcissus would much better suit his nature," Erik said. At this Breanna promptly burst into laughter. Gadelombré hissed in annoyance and stalked out of the room, tail raised as though trying to mend his wounded pride.

Breanna called out an apology as if the cat could understand. Erik just shook his head.

"No, he could use the humility. He can be useful, though," he added, head tilted to the side thoughtfully.

Nadir smiled. "Yes, now I'm sure our young charge would like to return to the above world."

"Ah, yes. Of course. Follow me," said Erik. Breanna stood and followed him outside. She looked across the vast glassy lake and the deep caverns. One could easily get lost here if they were not too careful.

Someone cleared their throat and she looked up at Erik who stood waiting by a handsomely carved vessel. He helped the young manager into his gondola and pushed off.

Breanna looked into the clear emerald waters and watched fish flit about, avoiding the pole that would occasionally dip into the waters to steer. She touched a finger to the surface and observed the ripples.

"Careful," Erik said," lest the Siren comes to pull you in."

He smirked as she drew her hand away from the water and placed her hands in her lap. Thankfully he missed the part where she stuck her tongue out at him and she stared at her hands, cheeks burning. Why was she acting so childish?_ Shame on you_, she scolded. The Phantom wasn't exactly someone you stuck your tongue out at…unless you wanted your tongue at the other end of a noose, which would be an amusing sight.

Erik tied the boat to the peg sticking out of the ground and handed her out of the vessel. He escorted her through the dark winding tunnels. Breanna was grateful for the lantern light and stuck close to her guide.

The tunnels twisted and turned at random. She soon became dizzy and gave up trying to map out their path. They would stop every once in a while so Erik could disable traps and alarms. There was an impressive amount of them and Breanna counted each one. She lost count around thirty-something traps and a lot of alarms that eventually she gave up counting.

They finally reached the manager's office. It was with a great reluctance that Breanna returned but Erik shoved her through the mirror the minute they arrived. She turned to say goodbye but the mirror had shut.

...

Erik's POV

As he guided her through the passage he would glance back at her every once in a while. Her wide brown eyes observed her surroundings thoughtfully and occasionally glanced at the ground warily as though it would vanish. He guided her gently and decided to take a different path.

Erik did not wish for her to find her way back down so he purposely chose a complicated path. Then again, he did want her to return... _What? No, of course not. For her own safety, and my sanity, she should not be down her_, he thought.

As they approached the mirror to the manager's quarters he thought about the little time they had spent together. It was precious little, but nonetheless somewhat pleasant. Perhaps he should take her back...yes, take her back...after all, she seemed to want to stay...there's no Vicount to stop him...no de Chagny...just the cat...and Nadir...they present to problem...no...problem...

Erik quickly shoved her through the door before he could do anything rash, tossed her clothes after her, and pulled the mirror shut. He had to get away from there. Before the madness seeped back. However he stopped and felt a strange sensation. Was it remorse? Guilt? He had treated her rather roughly. Perhaps he should apologize. A note would be safest. Yes, a note. Definitely a note. He was sure to lose his mind if he talked to her again.

Erik entered his private study and sat down at his desk. He picked up his favorite raven feather quill and dipped it into the red ink. The silence of the study was soon filled with the soft scratching from his quill on parchment. Then he set down the quill and reviewed his writing. So far no mistakes-no...that was a lie. There it was. In the left hand corner loomed big and bold an inexcusable error.

A smudge. A big ink blot. A big red ink blot. He crumpled it up and threw it. It landed with an unsatisfactory plop. He made a mental note to burn it later and started over, this time more carefully. Once he was satisfied with his work he called Gadelombré.

Erik held out a sample of the cherry wood that adorned the desk in the manager's office. The jet black cat took one sniff and walked off with the note. It had taken quite some time and patience to train such an independent creature. Patience was not something that Erik had little of, but he managed. He just hoped she received his letter and accepted his apology. She seemed forgiving enough. But now that she knows who he is, would she be so quick to dismiss his behavior? _Perhaps not_, he thought, _after all demons are not creatures to be forgiven. Especially when their sins are as great as mine…_


	11. Chapter 11

**Again, I apologize for not posting sooner, but this time it was on purpose. I didn't post sooner so I could write extra chapters in advance so that I can update on a more daily basis. Plus I've been working on creating a new avatar. It's going to be a clay model based off my current avatar. It's turning out great! Anyway, I had fun writing this chapter my ideas were just pouring out (I wish had had this much inspiration for my other two stories who are suffering for it). Enjoy this chapter.**

**Lovest Always, Lady Merriell**

**Disclaimer- I don't own Phantom of the Opera. Anyone is any of the chapters that appears in the book by Susan Kay or the book by Gaston Leroux or the musical or movies don't belong to me. They belong to whoever they belong to. Except the cat and the ballet dancers and Madame Decrispe and Craig-even the cat's name is mine! - and I could go on, but you get the point. **

**Chapter 10**

**Gadelombré **

**Gadelombré's POV**

A lithe black cat crept through the darkness, his golden eyes flashing much like his master's in the dim light. He opened his mouth and tasted the air then curled his lip in disgust. The dank, musty air was suffocating and he hated the dust. Nonetheless, the faint scent of the human female clung to the air with the trace of cherry wood he was looking for.

The tom padded lazily. He owned these passageways. The corridors knew him and he knew them. Light seemed to shy away and darkness welcomed him. It obeyed him as it had the master.

Gadelombré smoothly leapt up the steep stone steps. Once at the top he set down the note to briefly run his tongue over his pelt then took up the parchment. He brushed up against the wall, rubbing his scent and warning those who dared enter his territory, his hunting grounds.

Finally he slid out of the tunnels and climbed out of a knight's helmet. He slid into the manager's office through the door and dropped the note into the desk. Master was always very particular of where notes were placed. On the desks or vanities or tables where humans would find them.

The keeper of the shadows was able to leave without so much as a single noise. His paw-steps were quieter than a pin drop. As he returned to the dark safety of the Opera tunnels he couldn't help but hope that the master would have his payment ready. So proud was he of his quick delivery (since some weren't always preformed so discreetly what with that young ballerina who seemed to see all) that he decided to reward himself.

He caught the tantalizing scent of rat. Not nearly as rewarding as a tender mouse, but well worth it. Gadelombré crouched and crept stealthily upon his prey. There was a slight draft and he was careful to keep downwind so the rat wouldn't catch his scent.

It didn't suspect a thing. The shadows hid him and the slight breeze from a fan or vent prevented his victim from catching his scent. He could just make out the creature's shadow. With one last check on his prey's position, he pounced. A swift kill, nothing too long or drawn out. The squeals hurt his ears and he did not feel like dealing with a pack of angry rats.

Proudly, he held his catch high and carried it off to be eaten before he returned to the masters. Yes, indeed this was great luck for the keeper.

...

Breanna's POV

She lay on her bed and stared up at the ceiling. The phantom was real. He was real. Gaston Leroux was right to say, "The Opera Ghost is real". But he wore the famous half mask. What was he like? Was he anything like the books said? Or the rumors? Breanna desperately wanted to talk to him more to find out what he was like. About his story, the full story. And Christine! Especially her.

Breanna shifted. He might not appreciate them, though. There was no telling exactly what he would do. The Phantom-Erik seemed very...unpredictable. One moment he would be mocking and jeering while the next kind and even joking. Or sometimes he would show no emotion at all. Except his eyes. There was a tiny spark of emotion deep in his golden gaze.

Then she sat up. What if he started killing people? Or what if she accidentally offends him somehow and he flies into a rage? What if he did this or that? There were so many questions but there were no answers, so she answered her questions with questions.

_What if he didn't become upset? What would you do? And if he does, will you harm him? Mentally? Physically? Why are you asking yourself questions you have to answer to? Why do you worry yourself like this? Why are you still asking questions? Why does my back hurt?_

That's when she laughed, rubbed her aching back and stretched. _You're being ridiculous_, she thought. _Just do what you think is best and it will go from there. Now, let's see. What time is it?_

She glanced at the clock. Twelve p.m. Great, just in time for lunch. Her stomach rumbled and she set off in search of sustenance. Suddenly a streak of light brown hair crashed into her and there was a nothing but a tangle of limbs, torso, and hair upon the floor. The air was knocked clean from her throat.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I-" the voice broke off and Breanna felt herself being squeezed in a tight embrace. "We found you! No-I found you," squealed the unmistakable voice of Valerie.

"Valerie, calm down. What are you talking about?" laughed Breanna while trying to regain her breath.

"You've been gone for three days. Everyone's been looking for you," cried Valerie. _Three days?!_

"Th-three days?" she stammered. Valerie's head bobbed in confirmation.

"Yup," she grinned cheerfully. "Monsieur DeChancy came looking for you and after a day everyone started getting anxious."

Breanna couldn't focus on what the little ballerina was saying. _Gone? For three days? Was I really out that long?_ _How did that happen?_ She felt bad for Nadir and the Phantom-Erik-Opera Ghost (she wasn't quite sure what he preferred). They had to care for her for three days while she lay in her lazy backside. Of course Nadir had said it wasn't any trouble, but three days? What did Erik or whatever-he-wanted-to-be-called think?

"I'll go tell them you're back!" squealed Valerie. Breanna watched her speed down the hallway. A second later a familiar bulky figure whipped around the corner. She moaned. The figure grabbed her by the shoulders and squeezed as though tempted to shake her.

"Where were you," growled Craig. "Where did you go? Why weren't you in your room?"

She had to think quickly. "I was in the fourth cellar." It wasn't quite a lie.

He stiffened and stared. "The fourth cellar...for three days? How?"

"I hit my head," she answered. _Really, I'm such a terrible liar,_ she thought. Craig didn't believe her, but didn't continue further as several others came spilling down the hallway. He let go of her shoulders, thankfully, and stepped aside as Mlle Cadhla threw herself at the brunette.

"Where were you," she cried. "We were worried sick."

"I'm fine," Breanna said. "I hit my head and was out for a bit. When I came around I came back. I honestly didn't think I was gone so long." She hated lying and she hated it even more that she was terrible at it. But the ballerina took no notice.

"I'm just glad you're back," said Mlle Cadhla.

"Yes. Now, you are sure you're okay?" asked M DeChancy.

Breanna turned and smiled at the concerned look on his slightly wrinkled features. "I feel fine."

"All the same I think it is better to be safe than sorry." Breanna sighed and nodded.

"Maybe when you come back if you're okay you can watch us preform. We have rehearsals at five thirty," said Vallerie brightly.

"I would like that very much," Breanna answered still grinning. Valerie's eyes lit up and even Selene smiled shyly. The two held hands and Vallerie managed to convince her companion to skip off.

Craig watched the two with an odd expression. His attention seemed more focused on the quieter of the two. What was that look? She couldn't quite put a finger on it...it almost looked like...tenderness and-was that...longing? Sadness? It didn't make any sense.

Whatever it was, Breanna was sure in all the time she had known him not once had Craig looked at children with any emotion whatsoever. And never had she seen him show any real emotion that indicated he cared about anything. He had yet to show there was kindness in that stony heart of his.

As she pondered over his odd behavior she found herself being guided to car by none other than the subject of her thoughts. She slipped into the driver's seat of his sedan and buckled her seatbelt. On the way to the clinic she couldn't help but glance at him occasionally. Perhaps Tin man does have a heart.

...

"No, Selene! Allegro, not adagio," growled Mme Decrispé. She sighed in exasperation. "You have to be able to keep going. There is no intermission."

Breanna watched as poor Selene stumbled over the movements. She leapt across the stage with the grace of a wobbly newborn fawn. Breanna had never seen any ballet performance save for the Nutcracker Sweet video recording she watched in third grade, but even she could tell the positions Selene was attempting lacked in skill.

The ballet corps moved as one save for Selene and a few ballerinos who seemed to be having trouble with some move called a _deboulé_. It wasn't entirely noticeable, thankfully, but nothing escaped the ballet mistress's scrutinizing gaze.

Pretty boy Beaumont leapt onto the stage with every amount of grace as a duck, but he disguised it with his quick movements. Decrispé seemed to favor him, but Breanna couldn't see how she would. His ego was big enough to fill Texas fifty times in a row. She usually didn't judge people so quickly, but it only took one meeting to know how narcissistic he would prove to be.

Then came his partner, Cadhla. Her dancing was flawless and her grace rivaled that of a swan. Breanna sighed contentedly and sunk back into her chair. She hasn't realized that she had tensed up, but now she could relax. The show wouldn't be a total failure and with the promise of a full house she hoped there wouldn't be any refunds.

_These are professionals,_ she told herself, _so calm down. They're just a little off today. Oh goodness, but the performance is in a few days and they still have a lot to clean up._

The corps had three ballets to memorize and they had to make way for the opera performers whom she hadn't had the chance to meet since they were all too busy. She would just have to meet them during one of their rehearsals for _The Rake's Progress_ and _La Fille du Régiment._

Whilst Beaumont and Cadhla argued about how the scene called for grace rather than bumbling old nanny goats (which truthfully was a rather entertaining disagreement to witness) Breanna slipped out. She needed some air. And space. And water.

The angry screams from the theatre died away as she walked further away to the kitchens. Suddenly an arm shot out of nowhere and a fist slammed into the wall, effectively blocking her path. She looked up into the grudging gaze of the tall shadowy figure. Breanna instantly recognized the unusually colored eyes and stared, then smiled.


	12. Chapter 12

**Thanks for the reviews! They are my motivation and inspiration. Special thanks to PhantomFan01 (thanks for all the reviews! ****) and Kitty for the more recent reviews. Enjoy this chapter and I hope you like the little twist. Probably wasn't expecting this guy to show up.**

**Chapter 11**

**Excuses**

"Oh, hello Craig," Breanna said brightly. Craig just grunted in response. "Um, could you maybe move your arm? I was heading to the kitchen when it stopped me."

No response.

"Okay, I'll just go around." She turned around but his other arm blocked her. She was trapped.

"Where were you, really?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You were missing for three days. Where were you all that time?"

"I told you, I hit my head," Breanna answered. She could see he was struggling not to do something violent. His amber eyes flashed with untold anger.

"That is a lie. You were down in the fifth cellar, weren't you?" he hissed. She didn't answer. _No more lies_, she told herself, _it will only make things worse_. He grabbed her shoulders. "I said weren't you? Answer me right now! You know what's at stake." She nodded slowly. "Good, now were you in the fifth cellar?" She nodded again. He relaxed his grip then reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. She recognized it as the note Erik had first sent her. "Tell me what you can about this."

"It's a piece of paper with ink-"she started.

"No! I mean what does it mean?"

"Whoever sent it didn't know I was a female and is pretending to be a ghost," she answered simply. His patience was wearing thin.

"No, what does it mean to you?" he growled.

"Nothing, it's just paper," she retorted. Craig snapped and shook her in his anger.

"Don't play smart with me. Do you know the Opera Ghost," he growled. Breanna winced both in pain and at his tone of voice.

"I-I don't know," she stuttered trying to buy some time. Maybe someone would walk down the hallway and interrupt. All was silent save for some noise from the large theatre where the corps practiced and Craig's heavy breathing.

"What do you mean _'I don't know'_?"

"Look, how about we talk about this later?" she suggested. Before he could protest she slipped out from his grasp and ran. Breanna slid to a halt in front of the kitchen door and slipped inside. _Safe._

As her breathing evened out a familiar black haired waiter sauntered over. "Hi, Deverick," she panted.

"Are you okay? Do you want to sit down," he asked.

"Yes, thank you," she said and gratefully sank onto the offered chair.

"Need anything?"

"Water would be great." He left and returned quickly with a tall glass of water. She accepted it gratefully and drank heavily.

"What happened? And where were you? No one could find you," Deverick asked.

"I'm fine. I just hit my head and blacked out for a while. Craig-you know Craig, right?-took me in to get it checked. No sign of bruising or anything. Didn't even look like I'd been hit"-_cause I wasn't_, she thought-" so really I'm okay," she concluded.

"Good. If you don't mind I've got some tables to wait. My shift is about to start," he said.

"Okay. Bye Deverick. Thank you for the water," Breanna called.

"You're welcome," he said, smiling. Breanna stood up and stretched. She thought of taking a walk, but thought against it and decided to return to rehearsals. It was rather rude of her to just leave, but she was thirsty.

It seemed she hadn't been missed since Beaumont and Cadhla (she really needed to learn their first names) seemed to still be arguing with Mme Decrispé. Eventually things settled and the two barely spared the other so much as a glance the rest of the rehearsal. They ended with a bow and Breanna gave them a standing ovation.

"Bravi," she cried smiling. "Wonderful. It does have a few rough edges, but I have no doubt that they can't be fixed. It looks as though we'll have a full house come the night of the preformance."Everyone clapped, pleased. "Thank you for allowing me to watch and I will return to view your progress come opening night."

With these last words everyone broke off into groups to chat until Madame Decrispé reminded them of their "rough edges" that needed fixing and led them away so that the operatic performers could practice.

The opera preformers wouldn't be practicing for several hours since they had dress rehearsals and would be getting their outfits fitted, so Breanna decided to take a trip to the stables before she had to return to her managing duties with Monsieur Herman. She was careful to avoid the hallways where she had encountered Craig.

A chorus of whinnies, snorts, and the rustling of muzzles sifting through hay and oats met her ears. It was like music. She smiled at one of the French Trotters and allowed it to whiffle her hand as it searched for a treat. It lost interest when it found none and returned to its Timothy hay.

She wandered over to the albino gelding known as Finntan. His crystal blue eyes observed her nervously. His ears swiveled around catching every sound she made. Then his ears flattened as she drew closer and Breanna backed away slowly. The last thing she needed was an angry horse. Especially if it was Finntan. "It's okay, buddy," she crooned.

"Don't mind Finntan. He's just grumpy cause he doesn't get bran mash like Sophie. She was teasing him about it." Breanna whipped around and saw a fourteen year-old standing behind her. He had dark shaggy brown hair, freckles, and blue eyes.

"Who's Sophie?" Breanna asked.

"She's the chestnut Breton mare right across from Finntan," he said, gesturing to the rather stocky mare. She had short legs, a thick torso, and a coarse mane. All the same, she looked very pretty with her gleaming coat and a long white blaze sporting her forehead.

The fourteen year-old held out some carrots to the gelding. Breanna tore her gaze from Sophie and watched as Finntan take a few tentative steps then crunched on the carrot. The boy patted Finntan gently. "Good boy, Finn. Lately he's been really stubborn and jumpy. He used to be pretty docile. I don't know what's gotten into him. Maybe it's just Sophie being a glutton...my name's Soren MacCairn. What's yours?"

"Breanna Herron," she answered distractedly. She giggled as Soren gaped.

"The manager?" She nodded. "Everyone was looking for you," he exclaimed. She sighed. Was it really that big of a deal?

"I know. I'm okay, though." She turned her attention back to Finntan. "So, why are you here?"

"I work here. My uncle lets me come and help with the horses. The old manager let me stay," Soren said slowly, watching her out of the corner of his eye. Breanna smiled.

"You can keep working here," she promised. Soren sighed in relief.

"Thank you," he breathed.

"No problem," she said. They stood watching the albino gelding lean his head down to finish off the bits of carrot he had dropped. Her thoughts turned to Erik-Phantom. Maybe she should just call him the Phantom. Then she thought of Craig. What was all that about? Why had he seemed to determined to discover what he could about the Phantom? Perhaps now was the time she could find out why exactly she was here.

"Bye Soren. I have to go right now. I just remembered I have some work to get done," she said.

"Okay. You'll visit, won't you?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course. I'll do my best," she smiled. Soren's eyes lit up and he waved. Breanna returned the gesture and hurried to her office where Monsieur Herman would be waiting. However she was stopped once again by Craig. She wanted to ask him about what was on her mind. What was the purpose of having her at the Paris Opera. Thankfully and regretfully she was saved by some ballet rats who were on their way back from the bathroom.

She left him without answering his questions about the Phantom. The session with Monsieur Herman was long, but they got much done. There would be a full house for the opening night of _La Fille du Regiment_ (which was expected) and tickets for the ballet were being purchased quickly. Reservations were confirmed, bills paid, and so on. Breanna was organizing some papers that had fallen when Herman asked a question that made her freeze and her blood boil.

"According to Craig you took a detour in the fifth cellar. Care to enlighten me?" he asked as if he wanted to know what time it was.

"No, I don't care," she answered calmly, brushing aside her anger. For now, at least.

M Herman's eyes widened a bit. "Why ever not? I am merely curious as to what happened-"

"No, you want to know if I know anything about the Phantom," she said matter-of-factly.

"Do you?" he asked greedily. Breanna inwardly frowned in annoyance.

"No. I don't know anything. The note found was a prank and it is a mere coincidence I found myself in the fifth cellar. There is nothing down there," she said.

"Mademoiselle I am very skilled at detecting lies and it would appear you are very much telling one. You may be a decent actress but you can not lie to me," Herman said. Once again she was trapped but not physically.

"Leave," she whispered. "Leave my office." Her voice rose in pitch. That was all she could think to say. She had no response. All she knew was that she wanted him out.

"I will oblige, mademoiselle, but remember this. It does not do any good to lie. Especially in your position. Think about that." The door slammed shut and Breanna was alone.

**Just a little note about Breton horses. The Breton is a type of draft horse, which means it's usually not a riding horse and is used to pull carriages or work in the fields. They have short legs and strong arched necks and are generally very attractive horses. Their tails are usually docked, which means short, and come in these colors; chestnut or chestnut roan with a flaxen mane and tail. Chestnut is what most people call brown, but its not a fancy word for brown. Brown is when a horse has black points (black legs and mane). The Breton is native to France and Brittany. Hope that didn't bore you. Au revoir!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Hmmm… You know, I feel like the chapters are too short. What do you think? Anyway, yesterday I went to see Annie. It was so cute. The little orphan girls were ADORABLE. Despite the fact it was a rather small theatre (it was one of those one-on-one theatres) the actors preformed beautifully. I enjoyed it even more considering I watched the movie ALL the time when I was little. Musta driven my parents insane :P. Anyway, one with the story!**

**Lovest Always, Lady Merridell**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera or Love Never Dies… unfortunately. I'd probably be very rich. But, despite this unfortunate fact, I just stick out my chin and grin and SAAAY-**

**Erik: please stop!**

**Me: OH the sun will come out tomorrow-**

**Erik: agh, happiness! It burns!**

**Me: very funny**

**Erik: no really, if you sing another disclaimer song I'll explode**

**Me: fine, you ninny**

**Erik: what did you call m-**

**Me: Okay, moving on! **

**Chapter 12**

**Darkness**

**Erik's POV**

She had lied for him. _She_ had _lied_ for _him_. Erik was stunned. He was sure the little imp would tell all, but she kept her peace. He stroked the soft black fur of the tom that now rested on his lap enjoying his tuna treat. Perhaps she could be trusted after all. _Or perhaps she was simply putting on an act_, he thought, eyes narrowing.

Or maybe she really did want to keep his secret. Erik stood up suddenly, much to Gadelombré's annoyance and paced that floor trying to gather his thoughts and make sense of it all.

"You know, Erik, if you keep pacing the carpet like that you'll wear a hole in it," said Nadir. Erik stiffened. Why must he always meddle? Could the Persian not keep to himself for once?

"What is it you want now, Daroga," he grumbled.

"Nothing. Merely the curiosity as to why your habit of pacing has increased," Nadir said.

"There is nothing to be curious about, Daroga, now leave me be."

"Erik there is something bothering you," stated Nadir. It was not a question.

"Why would you care?"

"I'm not as stony and reserved as you are, Erik. Unlike you, I care about what happens to others," he answered. Erik continued to pace. Nadir sighed. "Erik do tell. I hate it when you keep me in the dark."

"That's a strange thing to say seeing as you live amongst darkness," said Erik gesturing to the black tunnels beyond the lake and all around it.

"That is not what I mean and you know that. What is it that is bothering you enough to brood all day?" Erik narrowed his eyes.

"I will tell you if you leave me alone," growled Erik. Nadir grudgingly agreed. "I am curious about the new manager. She has denied having ever seen what lies here in the fifth cellar including the existence of an Opera Ghost."

"And," probed Nadir.

"And I am curious as to why she has not told them anything," he concluded.

"She's a nice girl. I'm sure she respects your wishes to remain undetected," Nadir answered simply.

"Why do I doubt that?"

"We'll you're not a very trusting man yourself, Erik. Secondly I think you are being ridiculous-yes I _will_ say it and I am not afraid to. She has done nothing to give us any reason to believe she would give away our little hideout. She has done the opposite, actually. I trust her," said Nadir.

"You are foolish to so readily trust someone you just met."

"And you too readily judge a book even without the cover because you have read too awful tales in the past to give anything else the chance it deserves," Nadir retorted.

"More of your parables Daroga? I have to say I am disappointed," Erik commented.

"Erik, I'm just trying to help. Why are so concerned about the manager?"

"It is none of your concern," Erik snapped. He turned and swept out of the room, determined to have the last word. Nadir sighed.

...

Breanna's POV

The minute she was sure Herman was gone she pulled out the note she had hidden in the pile of papers she was "organizing". It had the familiar red skull seal and the parchment itself had black trim. It read:

_Dear Mademoiselle,_

_I apologize for any recent offenses I may have made towards you. I hope you are well and pleased with your accommodations. I trust you have not told anyone of my location and I would ask that you keep my existence a secret. I remain as always_

_Your obedient servant,_

_O.G._

Breanna smiled. Of course she would keep his secret. She already was. Then she had a thought. Perhaps she should write a note in response. She sat down and began to scrawl out a message.

_Dearest O.G._

_Your secret is safe. Meet me at the theatre at exactly __1:30 a.m._

_Your humble employer,_

_B.H._

Satisfied she put it in an envelope and sealed it. True, they had only just met, but even so she wanted to know more about him. She wanted to see him again and satisfy one last curiosity she had. But where to put it?... Of course! Tonight was the last performance of Tosca. The Phantom always attended performances, right?

Breanna skipped down the hallway and unlocked the door to Box Five. She took the envelope out of her pocket and left it on one of the velvet chairs with the best view of the stage. No doubt this was his preferred chair. As she left the box she bumped into-surprise, surprise- Craig. But before she could turn and leave he grabbed her arm.

"Wait. Please-" _did he just say 'please'_, she wondered- "I'm sorry. Lets talk about this over dinner, okay?" She just stared at him as if he had grown two heads. Since when did Craig ever apologize and say please? And he asked her to eat dinner too? All in one sentence? Is it Christmas? Isn't Christmas a time for miracles? It must be, but it wasn't. She just nodded and Craig led her to the Opéra restaurant, once again turning into his usual stony self.

They sat down and he ordered for the both of them. Craig remained silent as they ate. It was Deverick who, once again, waited their table.

"Fancy seeing you here," he teased, standing behind her. Breanna twisted around to look at him.

"Fancy seeing you still work here," she retorted.

"Why do you say that?" he asked.

"Because technically I'm your employer and I just might fire you," she replied, about to turn back to her meal.

"Why is that?" he asked catching her eye before she had fully turned.

"Cause you are keeping the boss from her meal," she answered finally turning back. Breanna cut up her fish and sampled it. She sipped some water. The fish tasted great. Another sip. It was rather salty. _Perhaps I should tell the manager-wait. I am the manager_, she thought smiling.

Her cup was soon empty so she called for Deverick for more water. Craig tried to get her to talk, but she wouldn't. She had promised the Phantom she wouldn't tell anyone and she was determined to keep that promise.

"Breanna, need I remind you of your position?"

Breanna yawned. "I know, but that doesn't change anything. It doesn't change my knowledge of the Phantom. Besides even if he did exist he would be a ghost. You know, transparent and all that," she said simply. She sipped her full cup and almost spat it out. Blistering firestorms, why is he still alive?! And solid of all things? Would that make him not a ghost? What is he?! She swallowed her water and artfully hid her surprise.

Craig just studied her through narrow eyes as she yawned and continued eating. What time was it? She couldn't focus on much. Her thought process was currently very sluggish. _Maybe I'll take a nap as soon as dinner's over_, she decided. _I've got enough time before Tosca, right?_ Breanna yawned again.

"Then it's your own fault I have done this," he murmured softly in a low hypnotic voice that made her feel all the more tired.

"Done what?" she asked, worried. Her eyes drooped. She was so sleepy. Suddenly it hit her. How could she have been so daft? The water did taste a little different, but she never would have expected this. She struggled to stay awake. _Should I run_?

Breanna decided to try her luck…she didn't get far. She stumbled and lay on the floor, too tired to move. The last thing she saw was a pair of amber eyes gazing down at her and she gave into the dark slumber that had been forced upon her and she knew no more.

...

Erik's POV

He reread the note. Tonight? She wanted to see him again? And she wanted to see him so soon? Erik frowned. Or was it a trick? No matter, he could always make a swift escape if need be.

The masked shadow carefully folded the note and sat down in his seat in Box Five. Nadir had decided not to attend.

"I can never watch Tosca with a dry eye," he explained. "Besides I watched the performance twice now." Erik didn't mind. He _really_ didn't.

As much as he enjoyed watching _Tosca _it seemed to take longer than usual. He glanced at several boxes, hoping to see the young manager in one of them. Eventually he gave up and focused on the music. At least the orchestra was decent. The performers sang well enough. It was definitely an improvement from La Carlotta and Piangi strutting about like egotistical peacocks. Finally the last bars of "_Amaro sol per te m'era il morire_" died away and Erik slipped into one of his many hidden passages the as the crowd applauded wildly.

Darkness swallowed his figure as he paced impatiently. Midnight crawled by slowly. The theatre had emptied and the lights turned out. One o'clock crept by. His heart pounded as one twenty nine approached. Then, finally, it was one thirty. His eyes scanned the theatre for movement. All was still.

Two o'clock passed without so much as a stir of movement. Eventually he had to admit defeat. What was the purpose of this? He stormed to his lair and glared at the fireplace as if the answer was in the silently raging inferno. Erik sighed and sunk onto the couch, resisting the urge to vent his anger through music. The last thing he wanted was to wake Nadir and provoke unwanted attention for his behavior.

Had she forgotten? It would appear not for one look into the manager's office told him that she was not asleep nor reading. Moonlight filtered through the window and a small layer of dust caked every surface. Time seemed to have come to a halt. The slightest movement would be unwelcome in such a still and isolated atmosphere, but Erik found himself wishing that there was movement. Or at least life. It would at least give some indication as to the location of the young manager.

Defeated, Erik returned to the depths of his Opéra house. All the while one question boggled his mind and drove him beyond the brink of frustration; _where is she?_


	14. Chapter 14

**Thank you for the reviews! I'm glad you're enjoying my story (I didn't think anyone would). Here is chapter 13. Enjoy **

**Lovest Always, Lady Merridell**

**Disclaimer- I don't own Phantom of the Opera or Love Never Dies. I'm just using the title for the story. Not making money off of this. It's just for the enjoyment of others and for my peace of mind after months of planning and feverishly typing it on my iPod in Notes along with the millions of other random notes ect.**

**Chapter 13**

**The Search; Rankbreath**

**Breanna's POV**

The next day "where is she?" became a common question. It seemed the manager had, once again, disappeared. Only this time she was not with Erik, at least to his knowledge. Many employees had checked the fourth cellar, but most were quite sure she hadn't hit her head again. If she had then she must be a real klutz.

The searches all turned out fruitless. The performers gave up quickly because of rehearsals and the costume department couldn't be bothered since costumes needed to be finished for the next performance. Those that did have the free time eventually called in the gendarmes.

Erik watched the flurry of activity in amusement, not knowing what it was all for until some gossiping janitors passed his hiding spot.

"Bloody manager's run off again," grumbled a brunette as she mopped the floor.

"Run off? Where to?" asked a sandy-haired man in his middle ages.

"I don't know! All I know is she couldn't have hit her head again. Unless she's that careless. Didn't look a klutz when I first saw her. Where else would she have gone?"

"Who knows? What kind of manager shows up disappears for three days, returns with the excuse of getting hit on the head, and then disappears the next day? She's hiding something. I can feel it," the man whispered ominously. Erik smirked. _Yes_, he thought, _she is hiding something indeed_. Of course, it had nothing to do with what was really going on, but Erik couldn't help but muse that she was indeed keeping a secret. His secret. Then he slipped away and the two continued their gossip.

He took it upon himself to search for Breanna. Perhaps she had found her way into the tunnels again. It seemed a very likely possibility, though not one he would prefer. After several hours of prowling through the hidden catacombs of the Palais Garnier he found as much information as to the manager's whereabouts as Nadir knew what 'go away' means; nothing.

Erik stormed to his lair and was about to enter the library until he saw Nadir in it. He sharply turned and retreated to his room where he'd at least have some solitude. Rubbing his temples in attempt to dissipate the thundering headache he sunk into his coffin. Exhausted, he succumbed to the darkness of sleep, which he did so rarely, but felt the need to. Just this one time, he promised. Just this once...

...

Breanna's POV

There was darkness everywhere. There were soft blankets, but not like the ones in the Phantom's lair. More like the sheets in a nice and hopefully sanitary hotel. Her eyelids were so heavy. She was definitely awake; she was just trying to figure out how to open her eyes. They seemed to be sealed shut. Eventually she steeled herself to try and they quickly adjusted.

The room was rather dim, but not so dark she couldn't see. It was, in a word, quaint. There was a nice oriental rug, a dresser, a small mirror in the wall, electric candelabra on the wall, and a fan. The floorboards where made of oak and the walls had cream wallpaper with floral patterns. Not exactly modern and fashionable, but she didn't mind.

She was laying on a simple cream bed with, judging by the quills that poked her neck, a goose feather pillow. It was comfy though. The quills didn't bother so much as the fact that she had no idea where she was. That was rather troubling. Especially when the last thing you remember is a pair of amber eyes and a very tall shifty character looming over you like a shadow.

Breanna sat up and slipped out of bed. A wave of dizziness swept over her and she took a moment to steady herself. There was a wooden door at to the left of her bed and she now rushed to it and tried to open it. To her surprise and delight it was unlocked. The small brunette wandered down the narrow corridor lit by electric candelabra. A feeling of claustrophobia overcame her and she hurriedly opened the first door she could find.

"Ah, you're awake," said the annoyingly calm voice of Monsieur Herman. Breanna moaned. He wasn't alone. Craig sat at a desk much like the one in her office back at the Palais Garnier.

"Come in," Craig offered, gesturing to take a seat next to Herman.

"How about 'no thanks I don't want to hear what you have to say?'" she suggested. Breanna turned to leave but her path was blocked by none other than the man who threatened her family in the first place. The one who convinced her to succumb to his boss's offers…more like orders in her opinion. His name was...actually, she wasn't sure what his name was. So she usually referred to him as Rankbreath.

"Hello, girly. I saw you left your room without my knowing and I was going to return you. My turn to guard, you see," he said, alcohol still hot on his breath. In that moment she wished she could roll over and die, justifying his nickname. _Great firestorms, that's foul_, she inwardly moaned, _it smells like something diseased crawled inside and died._

The brute shoved her in and stood in the corner of the room. To her credit, Breanna tried to look dignified as she sat and tried not to tremble as she was inwardly. _They can smell fear_, she told herself. It wasn't true, but it calmed her down a bit.

The thought of animals always helped. It actually made her want to laugh because Rankbreath looked so much like a gorilla she seriously considered he might be related. Herman looked a bit like a walrus with his mustache and Craig looked like... a rock. Whilst she pondered what animal Craig resembled she missed his question.

"I'm sorry, what?" She asked. Craig slammed a fist on the desk causing her to jump.

"I have no time for fun and games, so tell me. What do you know about the fifth cellar?"

"There's a lake and fish and-" she was cut off as a loud smack filled the air. Her cheek stung and a red hand mark blossomed where Craig had struck. The world seemed to hold its breath. Herman was staring at the ceiling and Rankbreath watched eagerly.

"Listen, girl, I'm done playing games. I have no time for it whatsoever. I was kind to you that time, but know that I might not be so gentle next time.

Now tell me, what happened down in the fifth cellar. And I want every detail," he growled, settling back into his leatherback swivel chair.

Breanna looked to Herman for help, but he just shook his head. There was no help from Rankbreath either, even if she begged. She sighed and looked at Craig and words flowed from her mouth like a waterfall. Once she was finished she was quite out of breath and watched Craig with bated breath.

"A convincing story, ma cherie," he murmured. Breanna felt herself relax until Craig nodded at Rankbreath who seized her shoulders and forced her to her feet. Craig walked in front of his desk and folded his arms, studying her thoughtfully. "Unfortunately I have yet to believe your pathetic lies. Send her to her room-"

"No, wait. That wouldn't do," said a voice from the door. Everyone turned as a dark figure strode in. His chin was covered in stubble and he clutched a silver walking stick. The stranger was clothed in a suit and dress shoes. Breanna found herself thinking of the Phantom, but this man bore no resemblance to the Opéra Ghost physically.

His eyes were a piercing ice blue, his skin leathery and worn, and his graying hair was well groomed and pulled back. When Breanna met eyes with him she almost shuddered. His eyes were devoid of all expression. They were cold and dead. All she had to do was look and she knew that this man had killed and had done so without remorse. He wasn't afraid to do it again and he would do so without a flicker of guilt. Somehow the room felt twenty degrees colder. He cleared his throat.

"As I was saying, sending her to her room would be like a reward. After all its just extra time to come up with more convincing lies," he whispered icily. "We can't have that, now can we Miss Herron?"

Not once in her life had her last name sounded so cold and harsh, but coming from this new person-if you could call him that- it no longer felt like a warm and kind word. She wanted to disappear under his gaze if it could be called that. More like the death-stare but without the intense burning.

"No, it simply wouldn't do. I think a punishment is in order. A small beating should knock some sense into her," he murmured. She half expected him to cackle at his own joke, but he was gone. He was gone so fast she didn't even realize he was gone until she noticed how much warmer the room seemed.

"Can I?" begged Rankbreath. Breanna snapped to reality. She was trapped and about to be beaten for her lies. Didn't she say she wouldn't lie anymore? She just lied to herself. _Great_, she thought, _I'm lying to everyone now, including myself. How did I get mixed up in this?_

Then she was being pushed into another room. It was slightly smaller than the last, but there was no desk or chairs. It was bare...except...was that blood? She stared in horror at the dried red flecks on the floor. The droplets spoke of tortured souls. This room had obviously seen many horrors. She shuddered and trembled as Rankbreath held up a club.

"Remember, not too hard. She can't return to the Paris Opéra in too bad a state," said Craig before slamming the door. Rankbreath didn't seem too pleased, but raised his club all the same. Breanna closed her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. Pain exploded through her leg as the club hit her calf. She wailed.

The club soon had her cowering in the corner, but she would not beg. She whimpered and cried as the club hit her, but she would never beg. Mercifully, the beating stopped and she eagerly fell unconscious, grateful to escape the pain.

...

**Erik's POV**

Erik floundered in the darkness. Why was he so afraid? Perhaps it was the ominous screams in the distance. He tried to find whoever it was, but there was no one. The screams were everywhere, all around him. At one moment they sounded like his angel, Christine. Anger raged inside him and he cried for his injured rose until the screams turned into different screams.

At first he was confused. Who was this poor child? Then he recognized them as the lost manager. A newfound strength brought him to his feet and he searched with renewed fervor. Then the screams were Christine's, then Miss Herron's, then Christine's, then Miss Herron's. Then they were one. They begged for mercy until Christine's wails faded out and only Breanna's were left.

Erik fell to his knees in defeat and covered his ears, willing the demons to stop their torture. His begs and pleas joined Breanna's. A death's head mocked and jeered at his pain.

"The Living Corpse!" it laughed. "The Devil's Child! Hear how he shrieks! See his horrid curse of a face!" Erik jerked awake before the bony fingers of Death could pry away his last security. He sat up and stared at his hands as though contemplating what to do with them. Then he broke down and sobbed quietly into his hands. Later he would find himself mumbling "horrid, wretched Erik didn't save them" and "monsters don't deserve relief" and "demons can't have angels". For hours he tortured himself with these thoughts.

Nadir stood outside of Erik's room having heard his screams and listened with growing sadness. How could anyone live with such thoughts? How could he torture himself so? The Persian could only hope that this episode would not send Erik into another...suicidal mission. Nadir cringed at the thought and decided to leave the masked man to his thoughts. There was no comforting him. His masked friend would only reject the condolence. He learned this long ago, about 220 years to be precise.

As Erik sobbed, far away another despaired soul wept softly as-blow after blow- she slowly lost faith in rescue as she fell into blissful oblivion.


	15. Chapter 15

**Sorry for the wait. Here is chapter 14! Hope you enjoy. It was actually **_**really **_**fun to write. Lately I've been struggling with one of my classes, so I've just been catching up ****. Anyway, on with the story!**

**Disclaimer: Again, I don't own Phantom of the Opera or Love Never Dies. Monsieur Leroux, ALW, Susan Kay, and some other people do.**

**Chapter 14**

**Freedom**

**Breanna's POV**

How many days was it? Three? Four? A week? No, maybe it was six. Her head pounded, everywhere ached, but she was still trekking. Breanna sat up and contemplated her position. Escape wasn't quite out of the question, but with Rankbreath right outside her door it wasn't the best choice. She could try, but it would be stupid.

Moaning she laid down again. _I'm a terrible manager_, she thought miserably. Then her thoughts wandered to the Phantom. Great, he probably doesn't trust her anymore. Plus the fact that poor Monsieur de Chancy would be stuck with most of the paperwork since he was apparently the assistant manager.

She jumped a little as the door opened. Rankbreath stuck his head in.

"Craig says to meet him downstairs," he all but grunted. Like a gorilla. Breanna sighed and said she would come. So she stood and walked through the narrow hallway. Her eyes spotted an empty hallway that would provide a quick escape, but sensed Rankbreath close by and thought better of it. The walls were a dull shade of baege and had very cheep green carpets. She wrinkled her nose at the amount of airborne dust and sneezed.

Eventually they came to a narrow staircase. As they descended she realized quickly that because of the limited elbow room it would be harder to escape. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to go but forward, and you couldn't quite turn around much less navigate around the person in front. You could easily be corner if there was one person in front and behind you. She hated it here.

Finally they reached the bottom where Craig waited. The brunette looked up at him expectantly. Craig glanced down at her, his buzz cut making him all the more intimidating. She felt small and insignificant. A feeling she didn't like when she was around him. He could easily make a great drill Sargent if he only yelled more than he grunted.

Eventually he spoke. "Follow me. I'm taking you back." At first she wasn't sure if she had heard correctly.

"I'm sorry, I think I didn't hear you right. You're taking me back?"

"Did you want to stay longer," he growled.

"No, no thank you," Breanna said quickly.

"Then come on," he snapped. Craig turned on his heel and Breanna scampered to keep up. Rankbreath followed behind until Craig waved him away. The human gorilla slunk away grudgingly.

Craig opened the front door of the house and lead her to the black sedan parked in the driveway. Dead grass hinted at both lack of care for the front yard and winter frost. Rolling hills hid all but the tips of trees that no doubt belonged to a large forest. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her down the front steps and all but threw her into the car.

Breanna winced at the rough treatment and tenderly rubbed her bruised wrist. She made a mental note to start wearing long sleeved shirts to cover the bruising and band-aids (which she secretly delighted in since some were Snoopy band-aids).

"Drink this," growled Craig shoving a water bottle at her. She stared at it distrustingly. "Drink it or you'll have to stay longer." She hesitated no longer and quickly drank. Craig slowly drove forward. After several minutes she felt her eyes grow heavy and allowed herself to slip into unconsciousness.

...

Erik's POV

Erik rubbed at the rope burns on his neck and drew his towel closer around himself, glaring at the fire and cursing its warmth. Nearby Nadir continued his rather long and boring lecture.

"You really should stop this, Erik, you know it's useless. Now that I'm done, I would like to add that you could be a little more creative," said Nadir.

"Okay, fine. Next time there will be fire, knifes, and explosions," Erik replied, his features twisting into a grim smile. The Persian frowned.

"This isn't a joke, Erik, I'm serious. All you're doing is torturing yourself." Nadir leaned forward. "Please try to see reason."

"What reason have I? It would do everyone a favor."

"No. One because you are no closer to death than you were a century and two you would be doing no one a favor. You have so much to offer. You used to travel a bit. Why did you stop?" Nadir asked.

"Because, Daroga, there is no purpose in it. I have seen all there is to see. I'm done. I'm ready to go."

"No, Erik, you have not. You've lost hope for yourself is what it is," Nadir argued.

"Perhaps I have," Erik growled. Nadir sighed.

"Please listen. It is not your time to go. You still have much to offer the world."

"The world holds nothing for me. The world could care less if I died."

"That is a lie," Nadir said. "There are people who would care if you died."

"Name one, besides yourself."

"That poor manager would care."

A stony silence ensued. Then Erik spoke,

"That poor manager," he spat," doesn't care enough to show up." Before Nadir could ask what he meant Erik had gone. Nadir settled back, all too familiar with these arguments. All too familiar.

...

Breanna's POV

Her head felt light, but her eyes weighed a thousand pounds. Breanna raised her head and yawned. Craig was shaking her shoulder.

"Wake up," he hissed. Breanna looked up at him curiously. "We're here." She instantly sat up and looked up at the glory that was the Palais Garnier. It looked beautiful with the sunset ringing it pink. The sunset was just as stunning with pinks, purples, blues, and soft golden sunlight lining the clouds scattering the colorful sky. As usual, the Rue Scribe was busy with oncoming traffic.

Breanna was about to get out when Craig stopped her. "Before you go, remember this, everyone should know, but in case anyone asks you were away on a business trip. Say nothing more. Do not tell anyone about what really happened-or else. Got that?" She nodded. "Good. Now go get some sleep. You still have about fifteen minutes for it to fully wear off."

"What about my bruises and cuts?" she asked. Craig handed her a jacket he had pulled out from the back seat. Someone's well prepared, Breanna thought as she pulled it on. It was little big, but it fit somewhat. She got out of the car and almost fell over if Craig hadn't come to her aid. The two made their way into the Paris Opéra.

As they climbed the stairs to the manager's office employees often stopped and welcomed her back. Of course she would smile sleepily. Some would stare suspiciously, but Craig would quickly explain that she had been sleeping and was still tired. Others just returned the smile.

However some seemed to suspect the worst regardless. Their manager had been drugged. Craig silently cursed under his breath about giving her a little more than needed. Breanna herself was too tired to notice. She was too focused on walking in a straight line and staying upright. Finally they reached the office and Craig left her to get into bed on her own.

Getting dressed was no easy task, but she managed to get into her winter pajamas. However she soon felt the darkness overpowering her own will to stay awake and she stumbled on her way to bed. In the end she fell asleep on the floor.

...

Erik's POV

It had long ago become a sort of custom for Erik to take a walk if he was in a particularly foul mood. In the past he would pound out his frustrations on the organ in his living room or the grand piano in his music room.

However his dependence on music had ebbed as of late. He spent less time on it without Christine's sweet inspiration. Not to say he never played. Erik just found himself striking wrong notes more often. Of course, his frustration would end up in his pounding out an angry chord which would sound just as bad and then he would end up smashing things (you would be surprised at how much he spends on new vases and plates).

The very shadows seemed to cringe at his presence, but they had no need to. He soon calmed and paced the passages thoughtfully. Eventually he allowed his feet to take him wherever they wished. The Phantom soon found himself listening to gossiping custodians. It wasn't until they mentioned the brunette manager that he became interested.

"...just saw her. Poor thing looked exhausted. Must've been a tough meeting for her to look so peaked."

"I saw her too. Looked more like she was drugged. That tall gentleman said she was just napping in the car, but he seems shifty," said a blonde. She was leaning on her mop and talking to a dark haired man with a broad face and baby blue eyes and a brunette with darker brown eyes.

"Oh Sara, you think everyone looks shifty," said the brunette rolling her eyes.

"Yeah, what does it matter how she looked anyway?" asked the man. Erik didn't stay to listen as they argued. He had no interest in what they said, so why did he find himself looking into the manager's office? The office itself was empty. He checked the next room. This time he found her sleeping, as he suspected. It was where she was sleeping that surprised him.

Her tiny form was sprawled on the floor, one small paw acting as a pillow and the other clutched the carpet. After several minutes he realized he was staring and he silently chided himself. Nonetheless he pulled a lever and the mirror opened, softly creaking. He winced at the noise, but she didn't stir. Erik knelt beside her sleeping form.

His first thought was to leave her on the floor as a sort of punishment. Erik rose and strode towards the mirror. Before he could leave he glanced back. The fading sunlight shone softly on her face. She reminded him sorely of his angel, Christine. This child, too, had the face of an angel. His heart melted for the first time in centuries since the precious little time spent with the young Daaé.

Suddenly he was overcome by guilt. The dark figure once more knelt beside the sleeping figure. He gently lifted her into his arms and straightened. She was considerably light. Probably lighter than should be healthy. It did make sense she would be considering her height. She was rather petite.

At first he was just content to stand there and hold her close, softly rocking her. Just like he had once with Christine on one rare occasion when she had had a nightmare.

As usual, Erik was checking on Christine. He always sang her to sleep, but he had been having previous troubles with the managers. His lip curled in distaste at the thought of the simpletons. No respect for the arts at all. They just toss in La Carlotta for every female role and allowed her to butcher every opera Erik ever enjoyed. Hannibal would never sound the same again. Not with the screechy old toad distorting the originally beautiful aria sung by Elissa. It was supposed to tug at your heart strings. Now it only made him tug at his hair. It made him wonder how the audiences could sit through the Opéra house's last performance of Carmen.

As he fumed he heard a soft whimpering. He walked faster towards Christine's room in girl's dormitory. There, in a small room where Meg Giry and little Jammes also slept, was his poor angel. She was softly weeping in her sleep, crying for her Papa. Erik entered the room noiselessly and strode over to Christine.

After watching her for a few moments he gently lifted her into his arms and softly sang a Persian lullaby, rocking her gently. He had once seen a mother calming her child in this fashion in Persia...before he killed the father. Quickly banishing the memory, he focused on the angel in his arms.

Christine had finally calmed and clutched his shirt as though it were the last solid thing she could hold to...

He now found another young lady clinging to his shirt in a similar fashion. One arm rested on her stomach and the other held his black cloak. So overcome was he by the memories and the fact that he was actually holding Breanna that it was only until midnight he realized that He should probably leave. He quickly set her down on the bed and pulled the covers over her. She still clutched his cloak and he had to pry her fingers away gently.

As he closed the mirror he found himself staring off into space thoughtfully. He shook his head and was reminded painfully of her lie. Now that he was back in his lair across the lake he found that once again he had bitter feeling towards her. Although the pain had lessened considerably his pride wouldn't allow him to forgive her so quickly.


	16. Chapter 16

**Crepes! I forgot. ****_La Fille du Régiment_**** is playing at the Opéra Bastille, not the Palais Garnier...it's actually ****_The Rake's Progress..._**** oh well. I suppose we'll just have to switch. If you are in this story and you purchased tickets to ****_The Rake's Progress_**** I apologize. You'll have to go to the Opéra Bastille and spend more money.**

**Random French Person: oh crepes.**

**Me: hey, that's my new phrase :( oh well.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own PotO or ****_Love Never Dies_**** or ****_La Fille du Régiment _****or ****_The Rake's Progress_****. Sad day. (Cries a river.)**

**Chapter 15**

**Overwhelming Yourself (its probably not very healthy)**

** Breanna's POV**

Breanna moaned. She had a pounding headache, but it didn't bother her in the least. Suddenly everything came rushing back and her headache increased a bit. But she could care less. That horrible...lair-type place was far away. And so was Rankbreath with his club. The memory caused her to wince, but she climbed out of bed and brushed it aside.

_It was traumatizing, yes, but it is the past_, she told herself. Nothing but a memory. After dressing in a nice long sleeved shirt and long pants she stiffly walked down to the kitchens where breakfast waited. Even though her instincts told her to be cautious of what she drank, she sipped her orange juice. Breanna thanked the chef and decided it was best to check on the opera singers and get herself acquainted with the cast.

She couldn't put it off any longer and she felt bad she hadn't gotten to see the last performance of _Tosca_. Then there would be paperwork to deal with and a possible meeting was scheduled the next day at noon. Oh, and then she should probably get acquainted with the rest of the staff (janitors, costume department, stagehands, etc.) Then Soren is probably going to want to see her-oh! And the Phantom! She'd have to find and apologize to him.

How did I ever get myself into this? As much as she disliked meetings and the fact that she would be expected to lead the meeting itself made her nervous, she had no choice. She had to step up and take the reins. She had to know the staff and watch the performances and know the patrons-oh dear stars, the patrons! What will I do?! They don't know me. What if they don't like me? What if they stop funding the Palais Garnier? What will they think of such a young and inexperienced manager? What if they expect me to know fluent French? I can understand them enough to make sense but my French is still a bit rusty.

_Calm down_, shrieked a rather annoyed voice at the back of her mind. _You're hyperventilating_. She then realized that she was, indeed, hyperventilating and managed to calm herself. _Okay, pace yourself_.

Taking a deep breath to relax herself and walked to the cathedral theatre, jumping at every sudden noise and avoiding the path of oncoming footsteps in fear it was...one of _them _(especially Craig). As she entered a very welcome sound filled the air and she was ready to burst. _La Fille du Régiment_ had been one of her favorite operas in seventh grade (considering she had only seen one recording of an actual opera and it was the only opera she'd ever seen).

A tenor's voice laced through the air, pleading with a rather corpulent colonel. His redheaded companion, a soprano, also begged the baritone to comply.

Mais vous ne… oui…

Tu parleras!

Tu parleras!

Puis-je en aimer un autre

Quand j'ai son amour!

… vous, … mais, …mais…

Tu parleras!

Au diable, écoutez-moi!

Breanna listened with growing excitement as the trio went back and forth in their argument. The colonel, whose name was Suplice, eventually rose in volume to a fortissimo and the two, discouraged, turned and the three continued in their more jovial chorus. The three ended with the handsome Tonio resting his cheek on Marie's red locks and Suplice standing right behind. They froze in this position as she clapped enthusiastically. Several other cast members also clapped politely and glanced over at her in surprise.

"Bravi," Breanna cried. "_Belle,_ that was very well done."

"_Merci_," smiled the tenor. The three introduced themselves as-much to the manager's excitement- Juan Diego Florez (the tenor), Natalie Dessay (the soprano), and Carlos Álvarez (the baritone). The three were charming. She only wished the rest of the cast were as kind.

"_Bonjour_, everyone," she called loudly, trying not to make her voice shake. Once she had everyone's attention she began," First off, I would like to congratulate the trio on that wonderful piece just now." There was a polite round of applause. "Second I would like to introduce myself. My name is Breanna Herron and I will be the new manager here. I hope to get to know you all better." Silence.

It was usually the old manager who introduced the new and the introductions took place in a meeting for all the employees. However, the only indication they had received of a new manager was a fare well from their original manager, Kiel Dupree, and the date to expect him or her. So it was kind Monsieur DeChancy who took charge.

When she arrived few saw her. She met the ballet corps, a few employees, and locked herself away in her office. At first, many were eager to meet her. When was the last time a manager invited the young members of the corps into the manager's quarters for a slumber party? The adorable little ballet rats never stopped talking about it.

Then she shut herself away. They had heard all about the events following up to her suspicious return in which many whispered of her possibly being drugged.

Some smiled and even welcomed her, though others chose to ignore her introduction. Was she trustworthy? Would she prove to be dangerous? Would she bring danger? If the tall brute that constantly shadowed her wasn't anything to go by, what was? Perhaps they were just being paranoid.

The brunette inwardly frowned, confused at their cold demeanor, but she took it as their anxiety about a new manager. After saying a quick farewell Breanna began the long trek to her office. After collapsing into the old leatherback chair she looked at the stack of papers tiredly, wincing as her battered flesh hit the hard leather. Tears filled her eyes as she recalled the staff's disapproval of her. She brushed the salty droplets away and read a business letter that had been waiting patiently at the top of the pile. Nothing interesting. Just a greeting from the FBE (French Bureau of Entertainment).

"...eager to meet you...unfortunate accident...hoping you are well... Sincerely, Robert Beauregard," Breanna mumbled, reading bits aloud. Seems like word gets around pretty quick. She wondered how they found out about the accident that occurred on the fourth floor. Setting it aside she started writing out paychecks.

The doorknob rattled announcing that someone was intruding. Glancing up she saw, to her great disappointment and anxiety, none other than Monsieur Herman.

"_Bonjour_," he greeted.

"Likewise," she replied with a curt nod. Herman shut the door and stood next to her desk, looking rather unsure of himself. "Did you need anything?"

"Are you well?"

"I'm healing," was her answer.

He shifted uncomfortably, then glanced over her shoulder at one of the many papers she was looking over. "We can not afford a pay raise," he commented.

"Yes we can," she answered, frowning. "We've received quite a hefty profit from the last performance of _Tosca_ and the corps already scraped together quite a few francs for the next ballet. The show's pretty much sold out. Besides, the custodians have been hard at work and they deserve-"

"We can not afford it," he interrupted. "The profits aren't just going to Palais Garnier, you know."

"Sure, but-" Herman gave her a look. _Remember..._

Sighing, she allowed Herman to be her puppeteer once more. Signing whatever and wherever he said, approving and disapproving, ect. Finally Herman left. Pulling out a sheet of paper and a pen she hastily scribbled a letter. She read over it and, satisfied, sealed it. Upon entering her room, she realized it was a rather dumb thing to do. Would he be so forgiving? Would he even find her letter?

Pushing aside these negative thoughts, she stuck the letter through the mirror as best she could, but left it sticking out a bit. If he ever received it she would know. Stepping back, she closed her eyes and basked in the warm sunlight that spilled through the window beside the fireplace. It was midday and the day was still young.

Snapping out of her reverie, Breanna turned on her heel. She needed to talk to someone. Someone who wasn't angry and didn't harbor cold feelings towards her. Someone who wasn't busy at the moment...like Soren. Breanna picked up the pace and practically flew into the stables.

A chestnut Mérens raised her head as the manager swept by and whinnied. The brunette stopped to stroke her for a moment, softly murmuring a greeting, then continued on. "Soren," she called.

"Over here," came the reply. Grinning, she walked in the direction his voice came from. Breanna found the dark-haired stable hand mucking out an empty stall. Nearby the rather stocky mare, Sophie, stood tied to pole. Occasionally she would lean down and whiffle the floor checking for any bits of hay. Breanna patted her soft neck fur and watched Soren.

"Do you need help?" She didn't want to stand around while the young lad worked his tail off.

"No, it's alright. Besides, I'm getting paid for this," he answered cheerfully. Breanna smiled at his willingness to work. When he finished, Soren wheeled the wheelbarrow away to dispose of the soiled straw before adding pitchforks full of new. Then he leaned on the fork and observed her.

"If you don't mind my asking, where have you been all last week? Some of the janitors have been talking about you and they said you looked really messed up when you came back-like you were-"

"I know. Don't worry, I look weird after naps," she assured. Soren nodded and that was the end of it. For the remainder of the time they petted the horses, watched Finntan, talked about whatever subject came up, and even exchanged jokes. At one point Soren left for a moment and returned with two peaches. When she hesitated he assured her he had washed his hands. She stared suspiciously and they laughed. For the first time in her life, Breanna had a brother.

As they sat on the top of the Palais Garnier, munching on their peach and watching the sunset over the busy Rue Scribe, Breanna had a sudden thought. "Hey, Soren?"

"Yeah?"

"Tell me about your family. Do you have any siblings," she asked. His face grew pained.

"There's not much to tell," he said. "My parents died in a fire."

"That's terrible," murmured Breanna sadly. Soren shrugged.

"I was about seven or six when it happened," he continued. "I remember there's was fire. Lots of it. And smoke. I could barely breathe. I made it out with my little sister. She was about one or maybe just a few months. That's all I really remember."

There was a brief silence. Then,

"Who do you live with?"

"My uncle, Hamish McCairn," he said. "He works here."

"Oh yeah, you mentioned an uncle last time I visited," she recalled. Soren nodded.

"That's him." Silence. "So, how was that business trip?"

"Trip?...oh yeah, it was okay," Breanna said. "It's getting late. Tonight is the first performance _for La Fille du Régiment_, right?"

"Yes," he replied. Breanna stood and stretched.

"I'd better go get ready. They'll be needing me."

"_Au revoir_," he said.

"_Au revoir_," Breanna replied, waving. As she made her way through the gilded corridors lit with impressive candelabra she wondered what the night held for her. What was she expected to do as manager? Perhaps there was some sort of book or file with guidelines. After slipping on a scarlet dress and black high heels, she curled her hair and left to greet the patrons. Before she left, she stopped and turned to look at the mirror hopefully. The letter was still there. Disappointed and discouraged, she left.

...

Erik's POV

The air was cold...of course it was cold, when was it not? Erik stared at everything and nothing. He was only vaguely aware it was cold. But it was. It was very cold. _Yes, cold_, he mused. It was times like this when he noticed how cold it was. Perhaps a fire? Nadir might appreciate it. Oh, and there was dust. Quite a bit of dust on the mantle. He sighed.

Boredom was no stranger to Erik. When it came he began to notice very trivial things such as temperature and dust. Sometimes he discussed the inconvenience of dust with himself. The boredom only reminded him he was human because that was when he noticed slight discomforts. Like the cold. It usually did not affect him, but it kept the boredom at bay somewhat. He let his defenses down in attempt to amuse himself or at least allow some trivial thing to keep him distracted.

Erik stood and tossed some wood into the dying flames. The flames hissed as the offending object hit the center of their fiery dance. Soon the logs caught fire and the room burned bright orange. He sat on the sofa and watched the flickering fire devour his wood offering. As he gazed he thought. And as he thought he wondered. And when he wondered he imagined.

He imagined he was mortal liable to death. What was it like to die, he wondered. Was it painful as your lungs heaved and rasped for breath? Or perhaps as easy as falling asleep. A very peaceful process. Perhaps it was a struggle to stay awake as long as you could, to ensure that you breath as long as you can, to try and tell anyone who will listen what must be said before you pass on. Or even, very possibly, a drowning in regrets. Of what you could have done, should have done, or what could have been.

"I know you are there, Nadir," Erik said, eyes still trained on the dancing flames.

"Will you be attending tonight's performance?" Erik turned to look at his Persian companion, with coffee-colored skin and thoughtful eyes of jade.

"Perhaps," was his reply.

"The performance is in twenty minutes if you wish to come," Nadir informed. Erik grunted. He knew. "Come now, Erik, it's a comedy."

"Yes and I really feel in the mood to laugh," he grumbled.

"Pray tell why you are so...troubled," the Persian groped for words.

"Daroga, I can say quite honestly that I am in no mood for laughter," Erik growled.

"I'm sure the manager that you are so…infatuated with will be there." Erik glared daggers at the Persian. No, scratch that, poisonous daggers.

"Suit yourself. I'm sure she won't mind my company. She has such lovely eyes it won't-" Nadir never got to finish his sentence for he was abruptly cut off by a hand closing around his throat.

"You will leave her alone," Erik growled.

"So that means you're coming?" Nadir asked brightly. Erik sighed in frustration.

"Fine."

"How delightful! It will be such a-"

"I just said I was coming, I never said we would speak to her," Erik snapped.

"Of course," he sputtered, disappointed.

"Then let's go," said his masked companion. Erik snatched his opera gloves, much-loved fedora, and cane. The Persian quickly followed, quickly jamming his _karakul_ haphazardly onto his head. He hurriedly climbed into the gondola before Erik could push off. The masked man rarely waited for anyone and Nadir had no desire to swim that night. Especially before an opera.

...

Breanna's POV

"Thank you monsieur. Enjoy the performance," Breanna said, smiling sweetly at a wealthy Frenchman and his wife. The man nodded curtly. He hurried off. _How rude_, Breanna thought. _He didn't even say merci_.

"Mademoiselle _directeur_," hissed a fair-haired employee.

"Yes, Gerard?"

"Almost all the boxes are taken. Save for yours and Box Five," he said hurriedly, glancing at some tourists who had originally reserved Box Three.

"Oh dear," she murmured. I must have made a mix-up. "Well...give them my box, Box Two. I'll take Box Five."

Gerard nodded then left to escort the Belgian tourists. Satisfied that everyone was seated, Breanna turned and made her way towards Box Five. Her eyes absentmindedly lingered on the golden plaque above that read "_Loge du Fantôme de l'Opera_". Shivering in anticipation, she unlocked the thick oak door and entered the infamous box.

**No. There is no French Bureau of Entertainment (at least that I'm aware of). It's all a lie! Anyway, apologies. Au Revoir! Sorry for the delay of the story. This particular chapter took a while.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Well, it's been a while XD**

**Reviewer: you can say that again!**

**Me: shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh**

**Anyway, life has been crazy with school, a funeral, a wedding, lots of crazy cousins, but now it's starting to calm down. I'm surprised I didn't post this earlier because I wrote this **_**months **_**ago! In fact, I thought I did post it, but I didn't **** oh well, here it is! Remember, I never abandon my stories. Sometimes I just need a while ;)**

**Lovest Always, Lady Merridell**

**Disclaimer: I do NOT own PotO…sadly. Maybe in a parallel universe (I just became a Doctor Who fan :P… oh, I don't own Doctor Who either, just thought I'd mention that randomly)**

Chapter 16

Erik's POV

The very last thing the esteemed Opera Ghost expected was to find a visitor in his box. True, there were tourists occasionally, but never during a performance.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Nadir attempted to see over his masked companion's shoulder. Erik growled in annoyance causing the Persian to fall silent. Erik threw his voice expertly.

"Excuse me, Mademoiselle, but I believe you are in my box. Please leave." The brunette jumped and looked around with wide-eyes disbelief. Erik sucked in a breath sharply and he immediately recognized the opera house's manager.

"Monsieur le Fantôme," she asked tentatively. He felt Nadir tense, then relax.

"Come now, Erik, she's a friend. We can share," the Persian coaxed. He boldly stepped around his companion and strode over to the manager. "Good evening, mademoiselle."

"Oh, bonsoir, Monsieur Khan. I'm sorry, truly I am, I could leave," she rambled. _Please do_, Erik thought stonily. He had no desire to associate with her. In the past he had had little to no tolerance for managers and he was unlikely to begin now.

"Nonsense, the more the merrier," Nadir smiled good-naturedly. Curse the Daroga and his good will. "Erik, come and join us. You don't want to miss the show. I hear the tenor is exceptionally good."

"More like exceptionally brilliant," Breanna added. Erik frowned. More likely than not this tenor paled in comparison to his own vocal talents. However, he couldn't be sure. Perhaps he could survive one performance with the meddlesome Daroga and another obnoxious manager.

The shadows seemed to sigh and Erik silently slid from the passage. Emerging from the behind the velvet curtains, he frowned to see that the Persian sat on the other side of the manager who sat next to his seat. Frowning at this compromising position he decided he might as well sit beside the manager. After all, his seat provided a perfect view of the stage while still being able to remain unseen by prying eyes.

With the stealth of a cat, he crept to his seat and stiffly sat in the cushioned scarlet. He froze when the manager turned and beamed at him.

"Glad you could come-oh, and I'm really sorry about stealing Box Five-" Erik waved a hand dismissively.

"Don't waste your breath apologizing. It's too late," he said. Nadir glared at Erik from behind the young manager at his lack of tact. Erik raised an unseen, nonexistant eyebrow from behind his mask.

"And...Phantom? I'm really sorry about that night. I was going to come, really I was, but-" at that moment the orchestra began tuning their instruments.

"Hush, it's beginning," Erik hissed. She fell silent.

The overture began. There was a soft tapping behind them and the door to Box Five opened tentatively.

"Mademoiselle?" Never had he seen her move with such swiftness (where had that speed been on that fateful day in the middle of the road?) She quickly stuck her head out of the door, blocking the view of the inside of the box from the visitor.

...

Breanna's POV

"Yes, Gerard?" she asked breathlessly.

"One of the baritones have fallen ill," he gasped.

"What?! Oh dear, who?"

"Carlos...Álvarez," he panted.

"Oh typhoons, Suplice?" Again, Gerard nodded.

"Is there an understudy?"

"Of course, he's getting ready," he confirmed.

"Thank goodness," she breathed.

"Yes but we need you to inform the audience." It took a few moments for the message to sink in.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You need to hurry and get on the stage and inform the audience," he said. She felt faint. In front of that huge audience? In front of everyone?

"Me? Um, okay. When?"

"Right now. As soon as the overture is over," he informed quietly. "Monsieur DeChancy sent me," he added as an afterthought.

"Okay, I'm coming," she said. "How long is the overture?"

"Another four minutes."

"I'll be right down, just give me a minute," she sighed. Gerard nodded and hurried off. Breanna closed the door and sunk to her knees, moaning.

"Is everything alright?" She looked over at Nadir, who looked rather concerned. The Phantom looked at her with a faint look of interest.

"Our baritone is sick and now I have to go on stage and inform the audience he's being replaced by an understudy-crud! I don't know his name!" She leapt to her feet, wishing she hadn't chosen high heels but thankful they weren't too high, and raced down the hall.

Several stagehands were waiting for her by the curtains. The dreaded end to the overture came. They ushered her out.

"Wait," she hissed, "who is the understudy?" One of them pressed a piece of paper to her palm along with a microphone and pointed desperately to the stage. Nodding, she hurried out. A spotlight followed her and she desperately tried not to tremble or stumble. Once in the center of the stage she shakily raised it the microphone.

"Bonsoir, madames and messiers," she greeted, somehow miraculously able to smile and appear calm. "Because of recent events, Monsieur Carlos Álvarez will be replaced by"- she glanced at the paper-"Monsieur Alessandro Corbelli. Merci, and enjoy the show." She hurried off the stage as casually as she could. The second she was off the stage and away from the backstage she bolted.

Heart racing, she entered Box Five. All those faces and eyes on her, expectantly. She shuddered, but attempted to look calm and collected as she sat between the Phantom and his Persian friend.

"Did I look too nervous," she asked concerned.

"You were fine," they both answered in unison. The Phantom glared at Nadir. Breanna giggled, causing the masked man to stare at her in something like amazement. Before anyone could speak the overture struck up again. Horrified, Breanna listened.

"Oh, I ruined the show. I shouldn't have gone after the overture," she whispered. "Now they'll have to redo it!"

"No harm done," Nadir said absently.

"It did 'ruin the mood'," the Phantom admitted, using a modern term he had heard many a time. Nadir shot him a look behind the brunette's back. She took no notice. _Oh no, the Phantom's right. I ruined it. I've gone and killed the moment. Violently shot and stabbed it and disappointed everyone and delayed the show. What will our patrons think?_ She felt terrible. _Why do I always have to mess up everything?_

There was a soft tap on her shoulder. Breanna glanced at the Phantom miserably.

"I-you-I did not mean what I said. I was...jesting," he said uncertainly. Was he trying to apologize? It was not nearly as smooth as Craig's, but it was sweeter considering who it was from and more...sincere.

"I know. I'm sorry if I made you feel like you had to apologize," she whispered as the audience applauded the maestro. They joined the applause and the curtain opened.

"Stop apologizing already."

...

Erik's POV

Usually he would pay extremely close attention to the Opera's performances. His eagle eyes would search out mistakes, his sharp hearing picked out sour notes. Today, however, he found he could not pay attention.

He could not help but glance at her occasionally. At _her_. He was missing this performance. Why could he not concentrate? This was her doing! Curse her. Scowling, he watched the opera through narrow eyes. The audience laughed at some joke he missed.

Erik held back a growl. What was wrong with him? Clearly whatever it was could not be healthy. Perhaps he was restless? It had been a while since he had left the Populaire. His eyes darted in her direction and he softened.

A single tear trickled down her cheek as Tonio confessed his deep love for Marie. Despite the tear her radiant smile revealed her obvious delight. Her optimism throughout the performance was…new to say the least. Refreshing perhaps? At least among the younger crowd.

Erik smiled. This Tonio had a good voice, this was sure, but even then it paled in comparison to his own. Imagine her reaction if he were to sing such a song. Surely she would weep endlessly! And she would smile, oh yes, her smile would light up his dark prison.

Erik banished these thoughts abruptly. Wonderful, angelic Christine was meant to be his savior, not one of his opera house's foolish managers. Now it was too late for him. He was doomed to an eternal darkness with no light, no hope. It was too late for him. After all, nowhere in history was it revealed that there was hope for any murderous, malformed beast.

Thunderous applause forced him out of his thoughts and he hesitantly clapped. He clapped politely for each of the actors and actresses since he had no way of knowing whom was worthy of such an honor. The chandelier lit up and a steady chatter rose as the audience slowly filed out.

Beside him Breanna stretched and stood.

"Did you enjoy the opera, Monsieur Fantôme?" she asked.

"Of course," he lied. Truth be told he did not get to enjoy a moment of it. His emotions still clashed and he could not tell one thought from another. What was wrong with him? So he settled on being somewhat civil. However he was sure that one more ounce on the scale he just might erupt.

Nadir's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Particularly Suplice. This Monsieur Corbelli was absolutely hysterical." Breanna nodded, smiling.

"Well, I'd better go attend to the patrons. You know, get on their good side, if you will," she said. "Au revoir. Maybe we could visit sometime."

"Perhaps," Erik said. He wasn't sure if he was so willing to take the risk when he was very close to repeating his past mistakes. It was tempting to do so...it would be so easy...but what was he thinking?! Was he mad? As if that were a question, but even he knew it would be a terrible idea. And with the daroga right under his nose kidnapping would not go over well.

He watched her disappear through the box door, a wave of her scent washing over him as the door swung shut. It was maddening. The temptation to scream and destroy everything in sight was unbearable. His knuckles turned white as he clenched them tighter with each thought until they threatened to spill his blood._ Control yourself, _he thought furiously.

If Nadir had noticed his friend's odd behavior he made no comment, which confused Erik seeing as the Persian always had some sort of snide comment or other. The trip to the dungeons was a silent one, leaving each man to his own thoughts and both vaguely wondering what the other was thinking. As soon as Erik had tied the gondola to the small dock and locked his front door both men retreated to their quarters. Nadir pulled out a book and settled back in a stuffed plush chair, content to relax surrounded by the comforts of his Persian inspired room.

Erik chose to sit on the lid of his coffin, thoughtfully tuning his violin. It wasn't for several minutes that he realized the violin was already perfectly in tune and just begging to be played. He set bow to string and a low, mournful cry emitted from the humble instrument. It creschendoed to a slightly confused and frustrated series of chords and relaxed. There was a slightly hopeful undertone to the melancholy song and it gained a slight Irish air.

The violinist closed his eyes and allowed the music to wash over him. He completely succumbed to the music, his heart and soul a humble offering. Music coursed through his veins and swelled inside with a power so strong a single tear snuck under his eyelid and slowly progressed down the smooth contours of his mask.

His voice was music and music was his voice. He was one with the music, the Greek deity of Music, much like Apollo. Except, he thought crossly as he sharply drew the bow over the tight strings, that Apollo was light. Erik was darkness. Apollo was sunshine, merriment, and spring. Erik was night, misery, and winter. Cold, dead winter. The epitome of everything humanity discarded in fear or hatred or flat out rejection. He was a monster composed of these unbecoming elements.

With a snarl he quickly shoved his violin back into it's case with the bow and paced, his inner battle raging. The battle had been won long ago, and yet it still prevails stubbornly. Perhaps it was his solace. How one could find solace in such self-loathing thoughts, but it served as one nonetheless. It provides safety from insanity. To prevent him from things that most demons are forbidden.

He was an outcast, eternally exiled to the darkest of shadows for the rest of his miserable immortal existence. It was a reminder of the fact that demons can not mix with angels. Darkness can not co-exist with sunlight. This was a constant reminder of why he must remain down here. These thoughts never let him forget the reality of his situation. And reality meant sanity, right? And sanity meant safety, peace for the mind. Or is this not so?

...

Breanna's POV

The patrons were all unique. All special in their own little ways. And all equally uppity and perfectly rude. Maybe that's rude, actually that is. I don't usually think ill of anyone, but I don't tell lies, either. Then again, it's probably not a good idea to get on their bad side, so the least I can do is be civil, right?

Having excuses myself from Box Five I hurried down the corridor to the Rue Scribe entrance. There they were. The de Bourgis family. I hurried over to them and greeted them politely.

"Bonjour," I said. The Marquis, whom I soon learned was very fond of his title while his wife could care less, looked down at me. His dark hair was well groomed and wavy. All three of his sons all looked identical to him save for one who had blue eyes like his mother.

There was Alfonse de Bourgis Jr, who was every bit of his father including his pride, Ètienne de Bourgis, whom I found to be slightly more vain and careless as his mother, and finally Thibolt de Bourgis, the more humble of the two and rather ignorant.

I almost laughed at their likeness when I first saw them and just managed to hold back the giggles as I commented on their alikeness with their father. Even their two daughters, the youngest might I add, were identical to their mother. They had blonde hair, blue eyes, and a bit of a tan from the times spent in the French sun over the summer. There was Gabrielle, the older and more uppity of the two, and little Alice, who was no more than three and insisted upon doing things her own way.

"It was satisfactory at the most," he said curtly. "The acting left something to be desired, but at least the singing was decent."

"I thought it was just fine the way it was," commented his wife, glancing at her husband pointedly as though chiding him with a single glance. He took no notice.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," I said.

"Could use more action, though," grumbled Ètienne tiredly.

"It's that stupid video game you got," sniffed Alfonse. "Ever since you got that television set its all you can do to sit still through dinner."

"At least I don't ride around on ponies all day," Ètienne retorted.

"At least I don't rot my brain watching the television."

"At least I know how to have fun. All you do is study."

"At least I will amount to something in life," Alfonse spat. Ètienne glared icy daggers at his elder sibling. Thibolt just rolled his eyes in annoyance. Alice just clutched to her mother, eyes wide with interest as she observed the argument between her elder siblings.

"Come now, don't be rude. There is a lady in our midst," hissed their mother, casting an apologetic glance at me. Of course, I smiled.

"It's fine," I said. "A little friendly spat between siblings is natural." Actually, it was a little less than friendly, but I did nothing to correct myself.

"Yes, well," sighed Mme de Bourgis sighed tiredly. "We'd best head home. It is bedtime for Alice and Gabrielle."

"No," the girls whined in impressive unison.

"Yes, it's getting late," said their mother, turning to leave. Although they were perhaps a bit too spoiled, the two girls were undeniably cute with their curls and innocent curiosity. I waved to them. Alice buried her face in her mother's shoulder shyly while Gabrielle smiled and waved openly.

The Marquis muttered a quick goodbye. Alfonse mimicked his father with a swift, but polite, merci and au revoir. Ètienne left, not even saying a word leaving Thibolt. He glared disapprovingly at his brother, then turned to me.

"I'm apologize on behalf of my family. They aren't exactly as polite as you may be used to," he said.

"No trouble," I answered dismissively. Tentatively, he took my hand in his and pressed a quick kiss to it. His cheeks flamed and I felt my own grow a bit hot.

"Au revoir," he mumbled. I repeated the phrase and he left just as quickly as Ètienne. I stared. Strange family, I thought, I wonder what goes on behind the scenes. Shaking my head slightly, I left to congratulate the actors and actresses on their job well done. It didn't quite go as I planned.

There was a bustling crowd of admirers which security had quite a time keeping under control. I never got to speak to any of them personally until the next day, but I did manage to gather the crew for a quick speech in which I expressed my thanks in as lively way as possible. To my surprise I found it hard not to drone, but I got by with a few chuckles and praised the cast on a job well done.

As the crowd dispersed I found that there weren't as many cold stares as when I first arrived. Everyone seemed to have calmed down and were in good moods. I can only hope they will learn to accept my presence with open arms.


End file.
